Born With the Devil
by DojoGhost
Summary: Sweeney Todd is reunited with his daughter. But will he lose her to a monster far worse than himself? Sequel to "When Sweeney Met Lizzie", but you don't have to read that to get this. Themes, violence, etc.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer:** "Sweeney Todd" characters property of Stephen Sondheim, Dreamworks, Warner Bros., et. al. Used here without permission for entertainment purposes and no profit is being made.

Any resemblance to elements of other works of fan fiction (e.g., words, phrases, scene elements) is entirely coincidental, since DojoGhost simply can't read everything that's out there. No plagiarism intended in any respect. To the best of my knowledge, this plot is my original work.

**A/N:** Welcome dear readers! I'm trying something completely new here and I'm not sure how it fits, so **please review** and let me know what's working and what isn't (in a nice way, of course).

Chapter 1 is up as well, so be sure to go and read that after the Prologue :)

**Special Note:** I'm in an exceedingly demanding program at school, plus I have a job at said school; so fair warning, updates will be sporadic at best. I'll do my level best to not write any evil cliffies ;)

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**Prologue:**

**What Manner of Dream?**

"Johanna! Darling, I'm home!"

Anthony dumped his bag just inside the door, casting his gaze about for any sign of his wife. "Johanna?..."

It might be a good thing she wasn't answering him: it gave him time to approach the hall mirror and make sure the cut he'd received at work today wasn't too visible. It was only superficial – he'd laughed at it when it had happened; he'd had much worse when he'd been a sailor – but Johanna…she was so frail, so perpetually anxious in her mind, she'd surely think too much of it. It didn't look too bad, but as an extra precaution he pulled some hair into a strategic position to cover it.

He was grateful for his job at the shipyard. Nothing could compare to sailing the open ocean; but work at the Chicago Shipbuilding Company was steady and it paid well enough to support a small family. To be honest – Anthony mused as he went in search of his wife – he'd been grateful they'd even been able to get out of England. Scotland Yard had been most emphatically displeased when he'd insisted on getting Johanna out of the country; but thankfully a sympathetic physician intervened. The young woman's mental state was such that an abrupt and absolute change was in dire order, lest it begin to take a toll on her physical health as well. With a promise to keep in touch and return if needed, Anthony had spirited his beloved away on the American-bound vessel of a good friend from the Merchant Navy who'd branched out into private enterprise. That man, as ship's captain, had performed the wedding ceremony on board. He'd also arranged for Anthony to find work at the brand-new and promising CSC, building steel-hulled ships.

She wasn't anywhere downstairs, so Anthony ascended to the small second floor, calling "Johanna?" as he went and soon regretting it, because he spotted her lying on their bed, turned on her side, sound asleep to judge by her deep, even breathing.

He grimaced, guilty for doing anything that might disturb her. The doctor said she needed rest. Sometimes Anthony wasn't so sure of that…the nightmares she had…the times she'd wake up screaming, as if she were being murdered right that moment, in her own bed…

"_No, Anthony…they never go away…"_

That was what she'd said. And she'd been right. Anthony ground his teeth at the thought that _he_ had been the one to take her to that madman's lair…_he_ had been the one to almost get her killed…Johanna had told him that only a woman's scream had stopped the barber from ripping her throat that night…

"Are you _certain_ it was Mr. Todd?" he'd asked her – many times – and she'd always answered identically each and every time – the man had started to shave Turpin, so he had to have been the barber; and his weapon of choice was a razor. Then she described him to Anthony, quaking as she did so – the pallor of the man's skin, contrasted with the reeking crimson of her guardian's blood; his jetty hair and eyes, like ebony ice; his gravelly voice as he sneered, with mock cheerfulness, _"Everyone needs a good shave…"_

Anthony hadn't been able to believe it at first. Mr. Todd. It seemed impossible. He'd known the man to be taciturn and tense, even to have a good strong temper. But _this?..._And that woman he lived with…God, what they'd done…what the constables had found…

Anthony squared his jaw, entered the room, and sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, careful not to wake his precious Johanna. She was muttering in her sleep, her brow crinkling, her breath coming more raggedly. Another nightmare. Anthony sighed and reached out, tenderly stroking her lovely yellow hair.

"Maybe the ghosts don't go away," he said softly, his own forehead creasing with determination. "But I'll keep you safe from them, darling. I promise you."

He leaned down to brush her cheek with his lips, and smiled when she calmed at his touch.

"I promise you."

* * *


	2. Omens

**Disclaimers: **See Prologue.

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**1**

**Omens.**

**March, 1893.**

Nellie woke up feeling cold.

It wasn't just the chill of the pre-dawn hours in early spring. As she scooted closer to the middle of the bed, seeking to nestle into her husband and get some warmth from him, she realized he wasn't there. That alone would account for the fact that she was freezing, despite being bundled into several layers of blankets…Still half asleep, she stretched out her arm, seeking him; but her hand found only the edge of the mattress.

"Sweeney?..." she called softly, and was answered with silence. She sat up and peered around the room. Moonlight filtered through the slats in the closed shutters, allowing just enough faint bluish-silver light to show Nellie that the object of her search had left not only their bed, but the room itself.

Sighing, she rose, wrapped herself up in a dressing-gown, and lit the kerosene lamp on the bedside table, taking it with her as she left the room, stepping softly so as not to wake Toby sleeping only one door away.

A quick, fruitless glance into the small parlor told her that her husband could only be in the kitchen – their home was small, there were only those two rooms on the ground floor – and she accordingly moved down the tiny first floor passage to the back of the house. There, seated at the table in the darkness, a bottle and a glass in front of him, dressed only in his trousers with the suspenders loose around his hips, was Sweeney Todd.

Nellie stopped in the doorway, fairly certain he hadn't seen her yet, absorbed in his own ruminations as he appeared to be. She couldn't tell what he was drinking, but she devoutly hoped it wasn't gin. She only kept the stuff in the house for Toby's sake – the lad still insisted it helped him sleep, and Lord knew he needed some help with that after what had happened in Fall River, even if it _was_ so many months ago. But even keeping one bottle on hand for…medicinal purposes was too much, to Nellie's mind. She associated gin with Fleet Street. Back then, that particular beverage and very cheap ale had been all they could afford for a time. Better and more varied liquors had come with financial success, and it was those things Nellie tried to keep to the front of the shelves in their new home. The gin was tucked away on the top shelf of the pantry cupboard, though everyone knew where it was. Even she, when certain memories of London started to get to her, would reach for it. And whenever she saw Sweeney with a tumbler of gin in his hand, she noticed he was even quieter, withdrawn into himself, his eyes unfocused and staring, and she knew it was the past he was gazing on.

Slowly, she entered the kitchen. "There you are, love," she said brightly, sitting across from him and placing her lamp on the table, so she could gaze on at least half of his weary, beloved face. The smell of the alcohol announced its identity first, but she tortured herself by looking at the bottle anyway. The liquid was clear. It was gin.

He didn't make a sound in reply to her, but picked up his glass and downed its contents, then immediately poured more from the bottle. From the slightly bleary aspect of his eyes, he'd been at this for a while already, but wasn't far enough gone to be drunk.

"What're you doin' down here?" Nellie asked softly.

No answer. She didn't like this at all.

"Did you have another nightmare?"

Nightmares were common enough for Sweeney Todd. Nellie couldn't count the times – even back in London – when she'd been awakened by the terrible sound of his yelling in his sleep, and had to soothe him back to reality. She never knew what horrors he saw in these dreams. He never told her. But she suspected it might have something to do with the long years in prison; or perhaps he was seeing for himself what had happened to his wife at the hands of Turpin…or watching his daughter taken away and powerless to stop it…

"Yeah," he whispered.

She reached across the table and covered his slender hand with hers, the golden band on her finger gleaming cheerfully in the lamplight. "D'you want to talk about it, darlin'?" she asked, knowing full well he'd say no as he always had, but needing to make the offer nonetheless.

But this time he surprised her. He lifted the tumbler to his lips with the hand she wasn't holding, and after he'd taken a long swallow he answered, "Johanna".

Nellie blinked. He hadn't mentioned his daughter's name since…

Since he'd read it in that newspaper article the night they'd left Fall River. Nellie remembered watching his face drain even of what little color it possessed as he'd read how his Johanna had been the one to show the London authorities to his chair, to the trap door; told them how she'd seen him murder Lucy and the judge. Nellie suddenly made the connection: since then, he'd been hitting the gin a lot more often. How stupid of her not to see it before…but they'd been married so soon after their flight from New England…She supposed she'd been so caught up in her own bliss that she hadn't noticed her husband's preoccupation. _Shit…_had this been going on for the past seven whole months? How many nights had he crept from their bed without waking her to sit in this chair and drink and be consumed by his torturing thoughts?...

She didn't think it had gone too far yet, though – she'd definitely have noticed if that was the case. So he was still anchored to the present; but she had to put a stop to this _now_, before he withdrew completely into his own head and she wouldn't be able to reach him.

"What happened?" she asked quietly.

Sweeney paused so long she thought he wasn't going to answer; but finally he said, "I killed her. She was that lad in the shop that night, and I…killed her."

Nellie stroked his hand. "Oh, love…"

Then he raised his eyes to her, hard and glittering like gold-flecked black opals in the glow of the lamp. "If you hadn't screamed, I would've done. I would have."

They'd discussed this issue at some length as they rolled across the American countryside on the west-bound train so many months ago. Sweeney had insisted that the only person who could have witnessed his disposal of his wife and the judge was the young "boy" he'd found concealed in his trunk. But since _Johanna_ had been the one to describe these deaths in such detail, _she_ had to have been that "boy". And Nellie had agreed with this reasoning. Johanna could have remained upstairs, terrified to move. Anthony might have returned, discovered the barber's deeds on observing the gore-spattered condition of the room, and departed with Johanna, all while Sweeney and Nellie were down in the bake house, absorbed in getting the evidence of their crimes disposed of. Nellie supposed – if this was indeed the way things had happened – that she and Sweeney must have only just made it out before the young sailor returned with the constables. They'd come closer to the gallows than either of them had suspected.

"You didn't know it was your daughter, Sweeney," she told him – again, just as she had when they'd threshed all this out the first half-dozen times.

"I didn't know that beggar was Lucy, either," he said, looking right into her eyes and sneering bitterly.

Nellie suddenly felt as if her heart was being wrung out like a dishrag. She withdrew her hand – more from that sharp pang than from anger. She decided she'd made a mistake in trying to talk rationally to him when he was in this state. She should have just made sure he was all right and gone back upstairs – then she'd wake at dawn with him by her side, and he'd kiss her good morning and everything would be normal. As it was, she'd have to live a while with the memory of this expression of anguish over his dead first wife.

First. She'd never be that for him. She'd always be his _second_ wife. Second love. Second choice. Second best. Like settling for parsley when the spice dealer was out of coriander.

And then, of course, lurking not so very far behind Sweeney's comment was the natural insinuation that Lucy's death at his hands was ultimately Nellie's fault. God almighty, she thought they'd been over all this. She thought they'd been reconciled to it – to each other – put it all behind them. Now she had to wonder if the blame would always be there, despite his assurances to the contrary. Would a part of him always accuse her behind eyes that spoke nothing but love? Would she hear it in his voice from now on, when he whispered her name in the darkness?...

Sweeney's dark head drooped, and he ran a hand through his hair. "God, Nell…I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"I'm sure it's only the gin talkin', dear," she said, and sighed. Perhaps it was, at that. She made a note to herself to find a new place to hide the bloody wretched swill –

And so suddenly it literally jolted Nellie from the seat of her chair, Sweeney flung the glass across the room, shattering it against the wall, followed with the bottle, and leapt to his feet, purposely throwing the chair back as he did so. He took a few steps and stood motionless in the center of the kitchen, facing away from her.

Taking this as a cue that he wished to be left alone, realizing that she wasn't about to get through to him in his current condition anyway, and suddenly feeling very tired, Nellie rose and took up the lamp to leave him to his musings. But she couldn't resist a glance back at him, and she realized how cold the room was, and how dejected Sweeney looked as he stood there with his head down, oddly like a boy being punished at school.

She set the lamp back on the table, went to him, and wrapped her arms around him from behind, resting her cheek on the chill skin of his back; and was immensely gratified when she felt the tension in him ease at this gesture. "It's freezin' down here," she said, kissing his shoulder blade. "You'll catch your death, love. Come back to bed, hmm?"

He turned, taking her left hand almost urgently and pressing it to his heart, touching his forehead to hers. "I meant every word I said when I put this ring on your finger," he murmured. "I still do. Always will."

His arms wrapped around her, holding her close, and he cradled her head against his shoulder, buried his face in her hair, inhaling its scent. "You know I love you, Nellie," he whispered rapidly, almost running the words together, as if he was afraid someone else might hear.

He didn't say this often; and its rarity, the reverence she knew he held for those words, only made the expression so much more precious when it did come. She sighed deeply. Surely it was only normal for him to have an occasional outburst like he'd had a minute ago. The unnatural thing, really, was that it had taken him this long – a little over two years – to so much as speak Lucy's name again. A small smile quirked her lips as she chided herself for – once again – expecting too much. His memory wasn't going to be erased with a wedding ring, as if the vows he'd spoken to her were some magic spell for wiping out the past. She'd have to come to terms with the fact that he _would_ look back on his former life from time to time. That he _had_ loved another – that Lucy had been the mother of his child, for God's sake. Considering Nellie could never give him that, it was all the more natural that his attachment should linger. So she told herself she ought to be satisfied and grateful that he'd chosen her at all, that he loved her even a little, especially in light of the less pleasant aspects of their shared history.

"Yeah," she answered truthfully, smiling. "I do."

He pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes, and started smoothing down her hair. "You said those very words to me seven months ago today."

She beamed at him. "Love! I thought you'd forget."

He slowly shook his head. "I'll never forget that day," he rumbled, and paused before adding "…Mrs. Todd."

Seven months of him calling her that and it still turned her insides to jelly, every single time. He'd said it to her on their wedding night, whispered it in her ear (_"I love you, Mrs. Todd"_) at just the right moment, and she'd nearly gone out of her mind. Now he compounded the effect by kissing her tenderly, sighing over her lips as he held her tightly to him.

"It's early yet, love," Nellie murmured. "We have some time…come back to bed…"

She thought she felt him hesitate for just a moment; but finally he kissed her forehead and said, "I really do need to get to the shop this mornin'." She thought she heard regret in his voice, at least. "But I promise you, pet," he went on, cupping her face in his hands, "when I come home this evenin'…"

Oh, she would think about that promise all day long…

* * *

It was mornings like this that made Sweeney Todd wish he was independently wealthy. Walking down 63rd Street in the gray light of early dawn in the freezing cold, his booted feet crunching on a thin coating of late snow, was so much worse when he considered that he could at this very moment be warm in bed with his wife. He wished it was Sunday.

He cursed Chicago.

Thinking of Nellie deepened the frown behind his scarf. He was never touching alcohol again, or so he told himself. How utterly _witless_ he'd been. He'd seen how hurt Nellie had been by that remark about Lucy, and with every right. Just when he thought he might have her convinced of his love, really convinced, he went and got semi-drunk and said _that_.

"_I've never loved anyone like I love you,"_ he'd told her when he asked her to marry him, as they fled New England by rail a little more than seven months ago. Of course he'd loved Lucy, in the way that young men fall in love with pretty girls. But looking back, and being completely honest with himself, it was never like this; it couldn't compare to what he had with his Eleanor. Lucy had been bright like the sun: her yellow hair, her cheerful ways, her radiant smile, all illuminating his life, lifting his spirit from day to day. But Eleanor…his dark fierce beauty, his all-consuming passion, the goddess of his ecstasy, the author of his pain: she'd overthrown his soul, flayed his heart, made him weak. She'd torn him open and seized his essence and bled him till he was raw from screaming her name inside, till he saw that he'd never _known_ what love really was before he'd surrendered his life to the depths of her eyes.

Love wasn't the easy prettiness of the sun – not for Sweeney Todd. It was the mercurial luminescence of the moon, shining in the black void of the sky at dead of night, gleaming its way into the dark of a tomb.

He'd make it up to her; he'd atone for his careless stupidity. He'd go and visit her today, when he customarily closed the shop for an hour at noon. This thought struck him just as the great, somber silhouette of Mr. Holmes' grand hotel came into view about half a block away. Sweeney liked the building: like a stark medieval castle it was, squatting ominously at the corner of 63rd and Wallace, its upper floor windows curtained, its false battlements menacing against even the bluest, most cheerful sky. Nellie had her shop there, on the ground floor: a much smaller operation than she'd been used to in the past, chiefly selling confectionary pastries. No meat pies this time, nor anything else too extravagant. They absolutely had to avoid garnering attention. That was why they'd rented two different locations, plus the small house. It was costly; but their friend and abettor, John Morse, had given them a tidy sum to help them start over again. They couldn't afford to have people make associations based on a barber shop and a bakery being located on the same premises. That had been their fatal mistake in Fall River. So Nellie rented from Mr. Holmes, Sweeney had his shop about two blocks further down, and home was near enough to both. And an essential part of their disguise necessarily entailed a complete change of employment for both of them.

He still called it his "shop", although that really wasn't appropriate for his new profession. Which reminded him…As he drew near the hotel, and Holmes' shop just opposite, he made a note to himself to return later today and speak with the man about some supplies that he needed. Holmes' primary trade was as a druggist, and Sweeney had thought it a real stroke of luck, after settling in, to run into an able druggist so close to home, considering his choice of new occupation. Nellie had said it was meant to be. A good omen. "Lord knows we need one, hey?" she'd said cheerfully.

Yes…he'd go and see her today. Stop on the way and get some winter flowers for her, he knew how she loved those. A small, unconscious smile was on his lips when at last he reached his own shop door, unlocked it, and entered the still-dim interior, lighting the lamps, firing up the radiators, keeping the shutters closed so he could get some work done before his proper hours of operation began.

He passed through the waiting area and treatment room to the tiny, closet-sized office at the back; and as he seated himself at his desk, ready to go over some reports for cases he was expecting today, his eyes automatically, like a morning ritual, went to the frame propped amidst the neat stacks of papers and books – the photograph of himself, Nellie, and Toby that had been taken in Fall River.

About an hour later, the strengthening sunlight began stealing through the cracks in the shutters, and Sweeney reckoned it was time to let the world know it could come knocking. He rose from his work, stretched, went to the front door, picked up the shingle that rested in the corner, and hung it outside on its hook by the doorjamb. He stood looking at it a moment, allowing a sarcastic huff to escape his lips. Of all things…It was Nellie who'd talked him into this (God in _heaven_, she'd been enthusiastic about it), as soon as he'd mentioned that his first employer had taught him a bit more than simple barbering over the course of his apprenticeship.

"_Nell, I couldn't do that now, it's been too long, more than twenty years – "_

"_Nonsense, dear! It's perfect for you!..."_

He had to admit, it had proved to be a good change. He actually enjoyed his new work. It was…gratifying, in its own way. Through it, he experienced a new kind of power, not so very different from the sense he'd developed in ending the lives of the men who'd come under his barbering knife. It was, at the same time, quite similar to the feeling he'd had when, on occasion, he'd considered dispatching a particular customer and then let him go for no particular reason. Perhaps his past and current occupations were simply the flip sides of each other – either way, Sweeney Todd remained in command of life and death. So perhaps he hadn't made that much of a change after all. Perhaps his Nellie had known that.

Anyone approaching him at just this moment, aside from his own wife, would have quickly turned and headed in the opposite direction, so chilling did Todd's slightly bared teeth appear below his hard, tired sable eyes. He stepped back inside, leaving the shingle to announce his new name and career to the world:

VINCENT T. MARLOWE,

SURGEON.

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**A/N:** Talk to me, people :)


	3. Holmes

**Disclaimers:** See Prologue.

**A/N:** **THANK YOU** to everyone who reviewed and subscribed! I am so honored by your interest! And if you read but didn't review, thanks for taking the time to read :)

Fair warning, Sweeney and Nellie only appear as secondary characters in this chapter. But, it's absolutely essential that you get to know H.H. Holmes, so this is written primarily in his POV.

WARNING: This chapter contains a rape, but it's not explicit.

Reviews are much appreciated! :)

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**2**

**Holmes.**

Ensconced behind the counter of his drug establishment, Dr. H.H. Holmes gazed out the large front picture window to his hotel-cum-retail building across the street. Business was slow today; all he really had to do was sit and stare. Luckily there'd been something for him to feast his eyes on for the past seven months – although that particular form of entertainment was currently not in view.

Just as he had this delightful thought, there came that surgeon, Marlowe, stalking along on the opposite side of the street and…what was he carrying?...Looked like an outsize bouquet of purple Lenten roses. Holmes chuckled out loud. The sight of those bright, cheerful flowers clutched in the hand of that scowling, morose man was simply a hoot. But the scowl would vanish soon…yes, Holmes knew precisely what would happen in…just…a moment…

Marlowe entered the space his wife rented from Holmes. She didn't appear when the shop bell sounded – Holmes saw, of course, rather than heard it jingle – and Marlowe appeared to rap on the counter with his knuckles. Holmes tensed in anticipation, leaned further forward over his counter, resting on his elbows. She didn't respond right away to her husband's summons. The druggist watched intently, bringing the nail of his little finger to his teeth as Marlowe craned his neck, apparently peering into the depths of the shop. Holmes unconsciously imitated the gesture, as if stretching his own neck would allow him a better view, across the street and in a different building.

"Come _on_," he murmured, chewing his nail, practically bouncing up and down like a schoolboy – and as if she'd heard his plea, she emerged – wearing today a deep pink frock that was almost red, her flaming curls bouncing merrily as she stepped out of the kitchen, her seraphic features radiant when she set eyes on the surgeon.

God almighty, but she was scrumptious.

Holmes groaned softly, then sighed and shook his head dreamily as Marlowe, after glancing about to ensure their privacy – or so he thought – took her in his arms and kissed her. Deeply and shamelessly, from the looks of it.

"Lucky goddamned bastard," Holmes mumbled to himself. What did she see in the man? He wasn't even all that good-looking. Those dark shadows under his eyes. Well, she had them too; but on her they were strangely endearing. And Marlowe was out of fashion. Men who lived in civilized countries wore moustaches these days. And just to emphasize that point, Holmes pulled proudly at his own full, bristling moustache. Then he started imagining how it would tickle Mrs. Marlowe, and that made him chuckle again –

"For goodness' sake, Holmes, wipe that drool off your chin."

He started so violently that his elbows slipped off the counter and he only just saved himself from planting his chin on its smooth wooden surface. Julia had come in. Silently. Damn her.

"Ah," he began – then noticed his voice was somewhat cracked and made an odd noise somewhere between nervous laughter and clearing his throat. "There you are, darling."

She glowered at him, then busied herself at the small jewelry counter they'd had installed three years prior. Holmes rocked back and forth on his heels, hands clasped behind his back.

"How's little Pearl doing in school?" he said finally, and a bit too loudly.

"Fine."

"Ah."

Holmes regarded his mistress from the corner of his eye. She was adamantly staring down at a row of rings she was arranging, determined to give him the cold shoulder. He recognized it. This was her favorite form of punishing him. If only she knew how profoundly he didn't care.

He smiled.

In two bounds he was across the store – planted a hand on the jewelry counter and literally vaulted over it, causing Julia to scream wildly – the next instant she was between him and the back wall. One hand gripped both her wrists, pinning her arms over her head; the other slammed down on her mouth, chiefly because all he wanted to see just then were her eyes, wide and pale and _terrified_ and full of his reflection.

He grinned into her face and snarled, "You're _jealous_."

She was breathing in short, shallow gasps that came faster by the second in her fear. The sense of her hot breath bursting onto his hand sickened him, and he subtly shifted his fingers so that they covered her nostrils as well as her mouth. Now she wouldn't be able to breathe at all, and that made him smile even wider.

"Jealous Julie," he spat, relishing the mockery of her name because he knew how she _hated_ being called "Julie", repeating it over and over in a taunting singsong: "Jea-lous Ju-lie, Jea-lous Ju-lie…"

He watched her for a moment longer, drawing out the amusement of feeling her weaken, seeing her turn slightly blue under his hand, which he began to tighten down on her nose, making her thrash her head from side to side. "I think I'm tiring of you, my sweet – "

But his entertainment was cut short – Julia's eyes flicked to the right, towards the window, and her brows shot upwards. Someone was coming. He let her go.

The druggist was just edging around the counter when the shop bell rang. "Good afternoon, my fine – "

Lucifer's lungs. It was Marlowe.

"Ah!" Holmes greeted him, too cheerfully. "Our illustrious local surgeon honors my establishment! And what may I do for you today, my fine fellow medical profes – "

"These items," said Marlowe in his quiet growl, handing Holmes a small paper with a list penned in a neat hand. Holmes simply could not believe that this scowling, brooding, terse, short-answer man was the same he'd seen not ten minutes ago placing flowers in his wife's hands with a smile and kissing her as if the world was going to end at any moment.

Holmes looked over the list and nodded. "I do believe I can accommodate you with all of this today, Dr. Marlowe! Only, I may be low on sulphate of morphine. Please wait just a moment."

Marlowe made no reply – honestly, Holmes didn't think the surgeon had ever strung more than four words together in his presence over the course of seven months. As the druggist bustled about his shelves and cupboards, collecting Marlowe's requests and placing them gingerly into a small crate, he noticed his customer hovering by the jewelry counter, looking at the rings. Julia, thank God, had gone off somewhere to sulk.

"Ah," said Holmes, in a _you sly devil!_ kind of tone. "I see you've noticed our new collection. Looking for something for that lovely wife of yours, perhaps?"

Marlowe said nothing.

"Hem – yes, well, we've _only just_ received some _exquisite_ sapphires, straight from Kashmir!" _Montana,_ he added mentally.

"I can see that," said Marlowe, keeping his back to the druggist – and Holmes could have sworn the man's voice had gone softer. Well, it was odd; but he seized the moment.

"Yes sir! Would you like to see one?"

Marlowe hesitated, then nodded once.

Beaming, Holmes put down the crate and moved jauntily to the counter, unlocking it and removing a ring that would _just suit_ Mrs. Marlowe's hand. "Now, my good sir, this is _quite_ the fashion, _quite_ the thing for a fine lady to wear; you can see the blue is – "

"That one," Marlowe cut in, stabbing his finger on the glass. Holmes eyed the line of the surgeon's finger to find that he was indicating a simpler band, a more subtle stone – smaller; but, it was true, a richer, deeper color. "How much?"

Holmes named the price, quickly adding, "Ah, but for you, Doctor, as a fellow medical man and all, half price!"

There was nothing magnanimous about this offer. Holmes wanted to move his merchandise before his new stock for the great Exposition started coming in. It also didn't hurt that Marlowe might mention such generosity to his wife, and she'd say nice things about him, and come over to thank him tomorrow. Personally.

Marlowe seemed to consider the deal for a moment, before finally nodding and withdrawing his wallet.

* * *

Holmes detested Marlowe – chiefly for having the wife that he had – but he had to admit that their business arrangement was profitable. However, regardless of the amount of cash Marlowe had plunked down, Holmes was thoroughly glad to have him out of the shop. He had an interviewee coming in for employment at the hotel, and he was close to running late.

Once Marlowe was headed down the block, Holmes hastily made his way across 63rd Street. As he approached the hotel, he looked into the window of Mrs. Marlowe's pastry shop and saw her smiling and chatting with two old ladies at the counter. He gave an emphatic wave and smiled brightly. She spotted him – and to his unparalleled delight, her eyes widened and she beckoned him frantically, rushing around the counter. Beaming, Holmes entered her shop, passing the two old ladies on his way.

"Why good _day_, Mrs. Marlowe!" he crooned, removing his hat and bowing slightly. "And how does this fine afternoon find y – "

"Mr. Holmes," she cut him off. "There's a young lady here to see you, said she has an appointment. I let her wait here."

Holmes was so preoccupied in absorbing her dulcet tones and charming accent that he had to make an effort to trace the line of her pointing hand to the far side of the shop, where a sweet, pale, chestnut-haired girl, no older than sixteen, sat in a booth with a teacup in front of her.

He forgot all about Mrs. Marlowe for the time being.

"Good day, my dear," he said, sidling over to the girl in the booth and taking her hand. "I am Dr. H.H. Holmes. And your name is Phoebe, yes?"

"Yes sir," she replied, her voice small and timid. "Phoebe Dalton."

"Lovely. Well, since you're here for a job in the hotel I might as well show it to you, yes?"

She smiled shyly. Oh, this was better than he'd dreamed.

"Follow me, my dear. Thank you, Mrs. Marlowe," he called over his shoulder, his prospective employee adding her own thanks as he led her out of the shop, round a small corner, and through the main door of the hotel.

* * *

Phoebe wasn't accustomed to being alone with a strange man; but Mr. Holmes seemed pleasant enough. Besides, she thought to herself as she followed him up to the second floor – it wasn't as if she had a range of options. With Mother and Father dead and leaving her with nothing, and her unmarried, this opportunity had come just in time.

"You're from back East if I remember correctly, is that right, my dear?"

Phoebe blushed in spite of herself. She would need to get used to being on her own, and part of that would involve learning how to talk to people properly. "Yes, sir."

"Oh! Please, call me Holmes, all my friends do."

Something about this didn't strike Phoebe well. "Oh, sir, I couldn't do that."

He stopped on the stairs, turned, and looked at her, smiling softly. "Well," he said, his voice taking on a warm, affectionate quality. "Perhaps we'll come to know each other so well that you'll feel more comfortable considering yourself my friend. I would like that, Miss Dalton."

His eyes stayed on her a moment longer, and there was something about them Phoebe didn't care for but couldn't quite define.

The stairs opened onto a large, windowless hall. Holmes led Phoebe through this area and took a quick left into a narrow passage with closed doors to either side. Phoebe cleared her throat delicately. "Do you have any guests staying here now, Mr. Holmes?"

"Oh, you know," he said, airily waving a hand but not turning to look at her. "We have a few; but I really built this for the Columbian Exposition, and that will open to the general public in only two months. I expect this place to be full to capacity then, so you'll have your work cut out for you!"

"I'm not afraid of hard work, sir."

"Oh!" he chuckled, "I'll wager not, coming all the way here from – where did you say, Miss Dalton?"

"Boston, sir."

They took another left at a very odd angle and emerged in a room with five doors leading off of it. Only one was open, at the far end. At this point in her "tour" it was becoming obvious to Phoebe that the hotel was excessively dark: the gas was lit; but it seemed odd that Holmes would light the gas in broad daylight when…

Then it struck her: she hadn't seen any windows.

"Ah, Boston! And ah…do you have family there, Miss Dalton?"

She swallowed. A terrible feeling was rising from the pit of her stomach, like butterflies only not so pleasant. "Yes," she lied; "I have an uncle and some cousins. I promised I'd write them and let them know I arrived safely."

Then Holmes whirled around and fixed her with his eyes, like pits, like the eyes of a dead man, and she actually recoiled. "But you told me in your letter that you had no one. That this job would be a blessing for you. That it was your only chance. Did you tell me a falsehood, little Phoebe? Or are you telling one now?"

_Now_ her heart was drumming. She felt faint. She looked about for an escape, but wasn't sure she'd be able to find her way back after the turns they'd taken. She could at least try: it was clear to her by now that something was wrong with this H.H. Holmes.

She started backing away from him. "Sir…I – "

Holmes' head was moving slowly back and forth. "I'm afraid you won't get very far, Miss Dal – "

With a cry, Phoebe spun around and bolted; but her skirts were cumbersome, and her shoes were confining, and Holmes was on her before she could even reach the door, his arms like steel bars around her, trapping her arms to her sides. He was immensely strong for such an average, unprepossessing man, and her struggles and cries for help were completely in vain. He was dragging her – she couldn't tell in which direction; he was taking her along a route that only grew more labyrinthine the deeper they moved into the building, and the gaslight itself appeared to be dimmer in these inner spaces.

Holmes finally entered a pitch-black room and threw Phoebe onto the hard, cold floor, leaving the door open, allowing the meager light from the hallway to seep into the blackness. She scuttled back from him, not knowing what she might run up against but convinced nothing could be worse than this man…He was walking towards her casually, almost ambling, and his confidence told her she was well and truly imprisoned. Something in her mind, just at that moment, realized she was never leaving this place.

His silhouette loomed over her, his head angling from side to side, watching her. "I designed these rooms myself," he said, almost gently. "Don't you think it's clever?"

"Please, Mr. Holmes," Phoebe pleaded, her absolute last resort. Which she well knew was hopeless. "Let me go."

A strange noise came from him, like a strangled grunt, and he pounced on her.

"You can scream all you like, my dear," he groaned thickly, the weight of his body holding her down, his hands ripping at her clothing, searching, grasping. "Please – scream."

And she did.

* * *

She awoke in the black room. The door was now closed – and, she knew instinctively, locked.

She was lying curled on her side, the agony of Holmes' invasion still wracking her body. She didn't know how long she'd been unconscious – or what else Holmes had done to her while she was in that state –

That thought made Phoebe turn and retch, continuing to tremble violently even after she was spent.

In the utter silence surrounded her, all manner of unspeakable possibilities coursed through her mind. Obviously Holmes didn't intend to release her – what other tortures did he have planned? Did he intend to violate her repeatedly? Starve her to death? Suffocate her? Drive her mad from isolation and darkness?...

Phoebe didn't know if there were other people on this floor; but she remembered the shops down below. If it was daylight, someone might be down there. Perhaps Mrs. Marlowe, that nice shopkeeper who'd given her the tea, would remember that she'd come up here and notice that she hadn't returned. Perhaps she'd be in her shop now, and Phoebe could somehow create enough noise to be heard. Holmes' invitation for her to scream as loudly as she needed to, and his proud avowal that he himself had designed this building, gave Phoebe the impression that this room, at least, had been soundproofed; and she wondered how many others had been similarly constructed – how many other people Holmes had trapped behind all those closed doors she'd passed on her way through the second floor…

All this meant she had to get out of this room before she had any chance of attracting attention. Blinking, trying to adjust her eyes to the darkness, she stretched out her hands and swept her arms in a circle around herself, feeling for any obstacles. When she met none, she slowly, shakily, rose to her feet. Keeping her hands out in front of her, she timidly took a step forward in a random direction.

After encountering no obstructions to her first few steps, she grew bolder, moving forward stoutly but still cautiously, until her fingertips touched a wall – cold and smooth, like metal. She flattened her palms against it and moved to her left, sliding her hands along the wall, seeking the door. In the absolute absence of light, her vision could still not pierce the blackness, and it was impossible for her to tell how far she'd traveled before she felt a tiny crack. Going further, slowly, she found what felt like a long, narrow handle. _The door!_

Automatically, she banged her fist on it, shouting "Hello?" and jiggling the handle. It didn't budge, of course; she'd expected as much, and felt rather stupid for trying it. Still, she felt she'd achieved something. Feeling along the door handle, she tried to detect a lock or a keyhole. The handle was perfectly smooth, so she kept her right hand on it while exploring the area just above it with her left. Still nothing. But below the handle – there was a tiny hole.

Her heart pounded as she kept her finger on what she hoped was the lock and reached up with her other hand to pull a pin from her hair. She'd had to do this once back home when she'd locked herself out of the house when Mother and Father were away. "Please," she breathed a prayer aloud, "please work…"

She was elated when the pin fit perfectly, and was just about to start twisting it in the lock when the stillness was shattered by a noise like a shrieking, piercing siren. Phoebe wailed in terror, jumped, and broke the pin in the lock.

The alarm continued to ring in her ears long after it had stopped actually sounding; and in the pounding residue of noise she heard Holmes' voice, faint but distinct, and tinny, as if it was coming through a tube: "That was a mistake, my dear."

A moment later, another noise reached Phoebe's ears: a creak, and something metallic sliding into place, like an immense gear – then the hum of machinery, followed quickly by a harsh hissing from first one wall, then another. The room instantly felt closer, and she was suddenly finding it difficult to breathe. It wasn't long before her lungs were burning, and she was struggling just to force a breath in.

Frantically, she scrabbled at the lock; but the hairpin was wedged fast. In her panic, she pounded on the door – kicked it – threw her whole body against it – it hurt, it was excruciating; the door was made of solid metal, like iron, and she was slamming herself against it – soundless screams tearing from her blistering throat, until she slumped against the door and slid down it to crumple on the floor.

Tired…she was so tired…She could try again after she'd rested a bit…her chest hurt so much…Her eyes closed of their own accord, and the last sound she heard above her ragged, pointless breathing was H.H. Holmes laughing through that tube.

* * *

**A/N:** H.H. Holmes was a real person, his "murder castle" really existed, and things like the events of this chapter and worse really did occur there. It's believed that he murdered more than 100 people by luring them to his hotel during the 1893 Chicago World's Fair and holding them prisoner, sometimes for months, before killing them with torture devices of his own design.

**Please review** and let me know what's good and what's not so good about this chappie :)


	4. Power

**Disclaimers:** See Prologue.

**A/N: THANK YOU** to all who reviewed and subscribed! You make my day!

Lots of things appear in this chapter that might look weird but are historically accurate. The following were indeed all available in 1893: Blood transfusions (but not typing, hence the high rate of failure); chest/mouth-to-mouth resuscitation (very primitive); telephones; sterilization of surgical instruments by boiling; ether as an anesthetic. For a while red wine was actually considered as an alternative infusion substance (so was milk, -shudder-).

In the 1870s the South African "diamond rush" made diamonds a dime a dozen, making them a cheap alternative to the more expensive colored gems. For a time the diamond was known as the "poor man's" engagement ring.

I just don't want to get flamed for anachronisms - not that any of you dear people would ever flame me ;)

* * *

**3**

**Power.**

_The old man was polishing his spectacles and smiling when his young apprentice walked in. "Ah, Barker," he greeted, his voice tired, though it was early in the morning yet._

_Benjamin grinned in return. "Mornin', Mr. Sweeney."_

_After exchanging pleasantries about the weather and such, the elderly barber asked "And that pretty fianc__é__e of yours, I hope she's well?"_

_Benjamin beamed as he pulled up a high stool and perched himself on it. "My Lucy is very well indeed, sir, thank you for askin'."_

"_Find a place for the two of you to live yet?"_

"_As a matter of fact, I found a place yesterday, on Fleet Street just by Bell-yard."_

_The barber squinted. "Would that be the Lovetts' place by any chance?"_

_Benjamin nodded. "They seem like decent folk. Mrs. Lovett was kind enough to give me a pie free of charge, it was delectable."_

"_Yes, aren't they just? I'm rather fond of Lovett's pork pies myself," Mr. Sweeney replied. "Heard they were offerin' that upper floor for lease. Well, mind you're never late with the rent or ol' Albert will pitch a tantrum. Good man, Albert Lovett; but he's all business, you know…"_

_The younger man only chuckled. Nothing could sway him from being giddy today. He'd made up his mind to it first thing this morning and he _would_ remain in this state of cheerfulness. His wedding was only two weeks away, he was marrying the loveliest creature on God's green earth, and he'd soon have a solid, reputable profession to support her. _

_He was roused from these sunny reflections on the future when his employer got down to the business of the day. "Benjamin," he began, his voice taking on a thoughtful tone Barker had seldom heard from him before. "I'd like to teach you something…a bit…different today." _

_Picking up the serious aspect of this new topic, Benjamin furrowed his brows and jumped off the stool, moving closer to Mr. Sweeney, who was opening his bureau drawer and taking out a large skeleton key. "I think I recall you telling me you wanted to teach me proper dyeing technique today, sir."_

_The barber smiled. "That can wait, lad. Did you put the sign out?"_

_Benjamin nodded._

"_Go and take it down. We'll be closed today."_

_This cryptic behavior had definitely piqued Benjamin's interest. He hastily obeyed his employer's order, and when he returned, the old man wordlessly beckoned the apprentice to follow him._

_They stopped at the wooden door to the cellars. Benjamin had never been down there; Mr. Sweeney had forbidden him, made it clear on the very first day of Benjamin's employment that the cellar was not to be disturbed under any circumstances. He'd always imagined there were important business papers or some such, perhaps a safe, in that off-limits domain. Now his heart sped up in anticipation of finding out at long last. The barber placed the key in the old, somewhat rusty lock, and paused._

"_I'm a widower, as you know, Mr. Barker," he said quietly. "My Mary and I never had any children."_

_Benjamin did know all this; but he still felt uncomfortable hearing it, as if he were somehow intruding on something very private. "Sir – "_

_But the barber held up a hand, silencing him. "I have no son to pass this on to," he went on. "That's how these things are supposed to go…have gone for more than a hundred years…leave it to me to break the tradition. But…you've been like the son I never had, Benjamin. I offer this knowledge to you – you may accept it or not, as you like."_

_He turned then, looking older and more tired than ever, and laid a hand on Benjamin's shoulder as he said, "What I'm about to show you might shock you, lad. Prepare yourself."_

_Then the key turned in the lock, the door screeched open – the close smell of must and mildew rushing out – and the two men descended the steep stairs into the depths of the cellar._

_There were gas jets down here – odd to have lighting connected to the cellar, Benjamin thought – and they were already lit. He supposed the barber had been waiting for this, had readied the area in advance. The walls and flat, low ceiling were of brick, sweating from the humidity; the floor was of stone, also slick from the dampness of the London summer, causing the men's footsteps to echo dully off the surrounding brick. Mr. Sweeney was leading him down a long, wide corridor, which ended in yet another door, this one studded with huge iron nails, like the door of a castle dungeon, and so low Benjamin knew he'd have to stoop to get through it. His employer opened this – it wasn't locked – and stepped through, telling Benjamin to shut the door behind him._

_The light was even brighter here, and the first thing Benjamin noticed was the odor – decay and chemicals, but no chemicals he could readily identify. Nothing he'd ever used in his training. He looked about to get a sense of his surroundings, and saw that they were standing in a small room, its walls lined all the way around with shelves that contained carefully-arranged bottles and boxes, and jars full of viscous, murky liquid in which unidentifiable solid objects were suspended. Against one wall, at the far side of the room, was a large cabinet with metal doors. And in the center of the room was a table, covered with a sheet; and under the sheet Benjamin discerned a long bulk the size of a man._

_He swallowed. He was starting to sweat. He felt lightheaded. "Mr. Sweeney – sir – "_

_The barber leaned his hands on the table and let out a long sigh. "Time was, all barbers were also medical men."_

_Benjamin already knew this. He started to gasp quietly; there was no air down here...He loosened his cravat._

_"More than a hundred years ago that privilege was revoked under pressure from men who began to specialize in medicine. Barber-surgeons' licenses to practice surgery were declared null. My great-grandfather was…less than pleased at this development."_

_Benjamin was only vaguely registering what the barber was saying. His knees were going weak, and he reached out his hand to steady himself against the moist brick wall._

"_I think he was thumbing his nose at the government when he decided to pass on his medical knowledge to his son, the defiant blighter. And so it's gone for over a century, down to myself. And I'm the last."_

_Then he approached Benjamin and clapped both hands on his shoulders, almost knocking him over in his shaken state. "I'm going to teach you the power of healing, my friend. I'm going to show you how to bestow life. It's the closest we humans can possibly come to being gods." He shook his head slowly, and smiled. "You have no idea of the gift you're about to receive."_

_These words calmed Benjamin somewhat, curiosity slowly beginning to replace his distress. The barber's words seemed…blasphemous, somehow; yet they thrilled the young apprentice. Could such dominion over the mighty realms of life and death possibly be granted to mere mortals? Benjamin knew, of course, that medical men possessed great ability; but he'd never thought about it quite this way before… _

_Mr. Sweeney turned back to the table, grasped the sheet, and pulled it back – _

_Benjamin found himself staring into the pallid face of a cadaver._

"_Rigor mortis has passed," Mr. Sweeney was saying matter-of-factly. "The limbs are flexible now. We'll start off small today, I'll just show you how to stitch up a cut. Then, if it's not too much for one day, I'll teach you how to set a broken bone. Tomorrow we can move on to tourniquets and the like, and…amputations will be somewhat far down the road I should imagine…"_

_By this time the barber was mostly talking to himself, and Benjamin was easing closer to the table. He'd spent so much energy working himself up to expect terror on finally beholding what lay beneath that sheet; but as he gazed into the dead man's face, he felt only pity…anger that death had taken this person away from his loved ones…fascination and awe in the face of mankind's most ancient and powerful enemy. Then he found himself wondering: what had this man died of? Had there been a physician there to assist him, and failed in the effort? Or had he been denied that aid – and if he'd had medical care, would he be living now? _

_Was Benjamin Barker really about to learn what it was to hold a man's life in the palm of his hand? _

"_M…Mr. Sweeney…"_

"_Yes, lad?"_

"_Where did you…how did…Did you – "_

_The barber smiled. "The body snatchers procured him for me, lad. Beyond that I don't ask."_

"_Ahh…" Benjamin was starting to sweat again. He'd heard of such men – shadowy, ruthless outlaws who robbed undertakers' establishments and gallows and even fresh graves to provide medical schools with cadavers for study. He couldn't help but feel that he and the barber were somehow tainting themselves by even indirect association with such men. "I don't know about this, Mr. Sweeney…"_

"_Well lad, think of it this way. This man is going to help you learn how to make others well. Ain't that better than he should lie molderin' in some grave doin' nothin' productive?"_

_Benjamin actually chuckled at that. His employer had a point. He moved around the head of the table to where the old man was standing over an array of instruments, lined up on a clean white cloth._

"_Now, son. This here is called a scalpel…"_

* * *

Sweeney Todd was just finishing off the last stitch on the poor man's leg. Or what was left of it. The patient's friends, who'd brought him in, told him it had happened at the shipyard – a sheet of metal severed this fellow's left leg a little above the knee, and nearly did the same with the other. Todd had managed to tie off the stump and save the other limb – but the man might never walk again even with crutches; and if he did it would only be with agonizing difficulty. Sweeney ground his teeth at the injustice of it. This man was no more than twenty years old. He'd certainly be out of work; and what would he do with the rest of his life? If he had no other skills, he'd be reduced to poverty and beggary. _Should've let him die._

He still could. The man had lost a very great quantity of blood – he needed a transfusion. True, that was a risky business – all the more so because Sweeney had only ever learned the theory behind such a procedure, not the actual practice – but that slim chance was the only chance. And Sweeney could just decide not to do it. He could let the man lie here and tell his friends that he'd died during the operation. Spare the fellow the trouble of living a wasted life.

These were the moments he relished: when life and death rested in him, the matter of a moment marking the boundary between the one and the other. And sometimes it was only an incidental thing that decided him. In this case, it was the sight of a golden ring on the man's left hand.

Not bothering to remove his blood-soaked apron, Sweeney headed out to the waiting area, and his patient's friends eagerly jumped up when they saw him.

"Does he have any children?" the surgeon asked.

The men's faces fell. "He's – he's not – "

"Answer the question."

One of the men – big and burly, built like a bear – answered, "His wife is expecting."

Sweeney nodded and said, "You come with me."

The large man followed him back to the treatment room. Sweeney immediately opened a cupboard and withdrew a mahogany box, the words BLUNDELL'S APPARATUS written on the lid.

"Sit down," he commanded; and the man did. "What's your name, sir?"

"Jacob Trent."

"Ever take part in a blood transfusion before, Jacob Trent?" Sweeney asked, removing a complex funnel-like object from the box and fixing it to the back of Trent's chair.

"No," Trent answered, swallowing, his voice unsteady. "Is that what you're going to do? Aren't those dangerous?"

"They don't always work" – connecting a flexible tube to the funnel and more tubes to a brass syringe – "No one knows why. Do you sicken at the sight of blood?"

"No, sir."

"Good."

Sweeney knew that his timing had to be flawless. He bent over his volunteer, quickly found a choice vein, pierced the man's arm with a lancet, immediately inserted one of the tubes, and strapped it in place with a leather belt. "Do not move," he warned, approaching the broken man on the table and repeating the same procedure. The men thus prepared, Sweeney seated himself on a nearby stool, took up the syringe, and with painstaking slowness began drawing Trent's blood, watching it move through the tube, into the funnel, through the other tube, into his patient's arm. He was sweating after a time, from the sheer concentration involved. If he pumped too fast, a bubble could form in the blood, killing the patient instantly. He could also drain too much from Trent. A soft smile came to the surgeon's lips. When had he ever held the lives of _two_ men in the balance?...

Finally, he deemed it enough. The pumping stopped; he allowed the remainder of the red fluid to drain into his patient while he unhooked Trent – looking rather white – bandaged his arm, and placed the transfusion instruments into a shallow basin. From one of his cupboards he produced a bottle of wine and a tumbler, and poured Trent a drink.

"I've never touched liquor, sir," Trent protested.

"Consider it medicinal. It'll help replenish your blood."

Trent looked askance but raised the glass to his lips while Sweeney finished removing the remaining apparatus from the patient. When his donor was able to stand, Sweeney directed him back into the waiting area and made ready to boil his instruments.

That was when he heard the rasping.

The patient was not faring well. His complexion had gone even whiter than when he'd first arrived, his breathing was ragged and gasping, and he was thrashing weakly. Sweeney rushed over and took the man's pulse – it was racing. He pulled back an eyelid and saw that the man was still unconscious. More ether would kill him in this state; if he was going to wake up he'd just have to cope with the pain.

Sweeney racked his brain, trying to remember what his employer had told him about such situations and coming up with nothing. The old man's lessons hadn't been geared towards actual practice. He'd only wanted to pass on his knowledge before he died. He'd never expected his apprentice to become an actual surgeon.

Sweeney wrenched open his patient's mouth and pressed his own to it, blowing air into the man's lungs, over and over – to no effect. Frantic, he leapt up onto the table, straddled the man, and shook him violently, massaged his chest, screaming, pounding his fist furiously on the man's ribs.

Nothing. Only a death rattle that no power on earth could force back.

The transfusion had gone wrong.

Todd shook with rage as he watched his patient die. He hadn't _wanted_ him to die. Not this one. He'd decided to make him live, and he'd been thwarted. _"No!"_ he cried, slapping the man's face, hammering on his heart in a foolish attempt to get it started again. _"Live!...Live, ya sorry bleedin' bastard!"_

"Dr. Marlowe?"

Todd stopped, his fist raised high, poised to smash into the patient's ribs again, as he whipped around to see Jacob Trent and the others standing in the doorway.

He slipped off the table, unsteady on his legs, and shook his head at them. Suddenly sorrowful, they withdrew again, and Sweeney, defeated, stepped numbly into his office to telephone the coroner.

* * *

Sweeney was utterly exhausted when he arrived home that evening at seven. Nellie offered him supper but he refused, saying he was too tired to eat; so she only sat him down on the sofa, poured him a brandy, and settled next to him.

He didn't speak for some time, only gazed into the fire, and she let him. She took up a book and began to read, knowing he'd tell her what was on his mind when – or if – he was ready. Sure enough, she'd read about a dozen pages when he suddenly, softly said, "I lost a man today."

She wasn't sure what he meant at first. "Lost", of course, typically meant someone was dead; but Sweeney really only dealt with broken bones and gashes from day to day. Certainly nothing that would result in death. "Love?" she questioned, marking her page and laying the book aside. She listened as he told her about the shipyard worker and the botched transfusion, and when he grew silent she said, "Well dear, it's my understandin' those things usually don't go well to begin with – "

He rounded on her, his eyes angry and hard, but said nothing; and she regretted her remark. He didn't need to hear such things just at this moment. "Come here, love," she soothed, reaching out for him; and he shifted his position on the sofa, bringing his feet up to lie down, pillowing his head on her lap. "Nellie," he said – but she shushed him and told him to rest, smiling and lovingly stroking his hair, and soon, relaxing under her touch, he closed his eyes and slept.

Two hours passed before she felt him stir. She looked away from her book and down at him as he slowly opened his eyes – seeing her immediately, as if he'd been watching her through his closed lids – and her heart fluttered in response to the look she saw there. He reached up to run the back of his fingers lightly over her cheek, brushing a few soft tendrils of her hair at the same time, as he whispered, "You've been my wife seven months today."

She smiled. "Yes, dear. I have."

He gazed on her in silence some moments longer, then said, "You are…so beautiful, Nellie."

Suddenly he sat up, twisting slightly to face her, one hand grasping the back of the sofa, the other resting on her waist. His eyes traveled slowly over her features, down her neck, over her chest, to the fabric of her bodice at her waist, which he caressed with his hand before letting his eyes travel back up to meet her own gaze again. "So beautiful," he repeated, almost to himself this time, barely audible, venerating her with his eyes, breathing softly on her lips, making her tremble. She was drinking in the love he was lavishing on her, barely even touching her – it was too much; she closed her eyes and breathed deeply, the breath releasing a moment later in a soft moan, the sheer power of his presence, his closeness, the adoration she could feel from him, sending her into an ecstasy; and he kissed her, tenderly – almost devoutly – his fingers lightly grazed her belly through the fabric of her dress, and she quivered there. She wanted to whisper his name, tell him she loved him, but she couldn't speak. With an effort, she raised a trembling hand to his chest, and when she felt his heart racing and pounding, her breath quickened; her hand slid down to ease up his shirt, and slipped beneath it, caressing his side in an effort to simply be closer to him.

"I have somethin' for you," he said, his voice so quiet it did not break the spell they had woven between them. He pulled back only enough to reach into his waistcoat pocket – never once looking away from her – and withdrew a small black box.

"I never wanted to give you a diamond," he said, and she knew he was referring to her engagement ring. She smiled, shook her head, and whispered, "I love that ring" – but he cut her off with a finger on her lips.

"I never liked diamonds," he went on. "They're cold. At the time, it was all I could afford, but…You deserve somethin' better." Then he opened the box, and the brilliance of the blue stone within struck her, made her gasp.

"Oh, love…"

Before she could utter a protest about the cost, he removed the ring, tossed the box aside, and slipped the band on the ring finger of her right hand. Only then did he break his gaze, lowering his head to turn her hand over and kiss her palm, his tongue loosely tracing its lines.

Her heart was hammering wildly now, and she felt warmth rising in her, spreading over her chest, along her neck, creeping to her face and ears. When finally he looked up to her again, his brows were knit, his eyes like burning embers.

"It's not enough to tell you I love you," he whispered. She felt his hand begin to shake as it held on to hers. "I adore you."

Suddenly, he grasped her hair at the scalp and pulled gently, just enough to tilt her head a fraction, exposing the long white curve of her neck – she loved it when he did this; her hands clenched on his clothing. His voice came hushed but fierce as he said –

"I worship you, Eleanor."

These words were not easy for him to say, and she knew it. "Sweeney – "

Instantly she was being lifted in his arms, carried through the parlor, up the stairs, placed reverently on their bed. He only left her a moment to close and lock the door; and when he returned, he stood by the bed a moment, motionless, gazing down on her – then, just when she started to wonder what he was doing, he slowly divested himself of his waistcoat, letting it slide to the floor, and began languidly unbuttoning his shirt.

An eternity seemed to pass before he was halfway down the row of buttons. Nellie could stand it no longer; she rose her knees, sitting back on her heels. "Stop torturing me," she said, and started to help him. She heard the smile in his voice as he murmured "Lie back down, love." But she didn't. She brought her hands up to his open collar and spread the fabric apart to reveal his pale chest, her hands flush against his bare skin, heart thundering at the contact, kissing his throat, his collarbone, as she slid her hands over his shoulders, taking the shirt down over his arms until it joined the discarded waistcoat.

Mad with love, ravenous with lust, she devoured his chest with voracious, nipping kisses, raking her nails down his sides, until he grasped her again by the hair, burying his face in her neck, reaching for the fastenings of her dress. She felt him inhale deeply, and he groaned, smiling, "You smell like apples, my dear…and cinnamon…"

He finally climbed onto the bed, wrapped her tight in his arms, and brought her down on the mattress with him – kissed her earlobe, caressed the delicate shell of her ear with his lips as he whispered "My wife…my wife…"

The fleeting thought occurred to her that this was all coming from guilt over his careless remark that morning. She didn't care. She only cared that his hands were so loving as they undressed her, agonizingly, deliciously languorous, making her shiver as he clothed her with kisses in place of the garments he was removing…

She felt as though he _was_ worshiping her: telling her he was hers, telling her to do as she would with him, offering himself like a sacrifice; roaring her name like an oath to the heavens while he clutched her to him in his rapture, while she convulsed in a transport of ecstasy – staring directly, deeply, unabashedly into each other's eyes, seeing there the deathless love, the consuming desire, that drove them together – knowing nothing else but this moment, being one in every way – despairing of the end, trying desperately to make their union last. She managed to utter his name in a strangled cry, even though she'd stopped breathing, as if she was dying, surrendering her life in his arms, though her heart continued to drum savagely against him. They gasped together violently, the pleasure searing them, scorching them – for a moment everything stopped, suspended – and crying out as one, they shuddered and collapsed into each other, struggling for air as if they'd both just narrowly escaped drowning.

They held each other while their breathing slowed, fingers still twined in each other's hair, not speaking, not needing to, creating a silence that was almost sacred, remaining bound together as sleep overtook them.

* * *

Sweeney awoke in the middle of the night. His wife was sleeping on her side, facing him, moonlight bathing her features, and the small smile gracing her lips told him she was dreaming. He watched her a while, allowing himself to admire her loveliness, until he felt an urge to touch her face, kiss her lightly on the forehead. That was when he turned away, because he knew she would wake, and he didn't want that.

Slowly, cautiously, without disturbing her, he stole from the bed, pulled on some trousers, crept from the room, and padded downstairs to the pantry. He lit one of the candles they kept there and searched the shelf for the bottle he knew Nellie attempted to hide out of sight. It was gone. _Don't tell me we're out,_ he thought angrily as he shut the pantry door.

But when he stepped into the kitchen, he was startled to see Toby sitting at the table, the elusive gin supply at his left hand.

He was about to back out of the room, but the boy said, "Care to join me, Mr. T?"

Sweeney considered a moment, and realized the only way he was going to get his drink was to do as the lad had asked. So he retrieved a tumbler from one of the cabinets and pulled up a chair.

"Mum asleep?"

Sweeney nodded, reaching for the bottle, filling a third of his glass. "'S wrong with you? Can't _you_ sleep?"

Toby shook his head, and Sweeney grunted.

"D'you get like this often, Mr. T? Can't sleep, I mean."

"Sometimes," he shrugged.

They sat in silence for a time, drinking, each keeping his own thoughts. It was, of course, Toby who at last broke the silence. "Can I ask you somethin', Mr. T?"

Sweeney suppressed a smile, thinking how much the boy sounded like his mother. "Go on," he said, in a gruff tone.

"How d'you feel when you kill a man?"

The tumbler froze halfway to Sweeney's lips. "What?"

Toby swallowed, studying the table's surface. "Y'know…when you killed all those men…back in London…what did it feel like?"

They'd never spoken of this; and Todd suddenly realized that Toby knew next to nothing about Fleet Street – only that he, Todd, had committed murder; and of course the lad knew about the pies. But he didn't know the _why_ of it all. "Why you askin' me this?"

Toby continued staring down at the table, and shrugged. "Dunno. No reason, really. Never mind."

Todd's eyes narrowed. "This about what happened in Fall River?"

At that, Toby looked up and met his eyes, and Sweeney knew he'd guessed correctly.

"You did what you had to, lad."

"I know that, Mr. T. I ain't sorry I done it, nothin' like that."

_Oh?_ That was surprising. Todd was impressed. "Well what is it, then?" he pressed.

"I want…I want to know if what I feel about it is…normal, like. That's why I figured I'd ask you."

Todd poured more gin and downed it. "Why don't you tell me what you're talkin' about first, and then I'll see if I can answer. What did killin' that man feel like to you?"

Toby looked right into Todd's eyes as he quietly answered, "Power. It just felt like power, Mr. T."

* * *

**A/N: Please do review** or PM, as I'm not real pleased with this chapter for a reason I can't quite put my finger on - I'd like some thoughts on whether it works in general. Thanks for reading!!


	5. Gone

**Disclaimers:** See Prologue.

**A/N:** My profuse and profound apologies for the delay in updating. School plus work plus family crisis equals insanity. Plus, this chapter gave me fits. FITS, I tell you!! And it's long - but I think the length is necessary for the subject matter...Anyway, here it is :)

* * *

**4**

**Gone.**

"Must you go to work today?"

Anthony paused with his hand on the doorknob. She'd been asking him these precise words every single morning for the past two weeks, with a variation every evening: "Must you go to work tomorrow?"

One accident – one careless, random mishap – and you'd think men got killed at the yard every day. Twice a day. He couldn't believe Johanna had found out about it, the very afternoon of the event, from the postman. She was already so fragile in her mind, Anthony didn't want to leave her alone during the day lest she work herself into a panic from worry. But he had to work. So that's what he told her – every single morning.

"Darling," he sighed, leaving the door to approach her and place his hands on her shoulders. He loved her, truly; but this was growing tiresome. He didn't want to have to get an alienist involved. "I have to work. You know that."

"Well…I've been thinking…that job is so dangerous – "

"Johanna, that was a chance accident. A fluke. How long have I been working for CSC? And how often have things like this happened?"

She sighed. "Never."

"Right." Well, that she'd found out about. The fact was, fatalities did occasionally occur. But very seldom. Too seldom for Johanna to concern herself with.

"But I've been thinking," she barreled on, "perhaps…_I_ could go out and work…and you could get a different job, even if the wages are less…"

Was she joking?

"Dearest, I don't think it's wise for you to do that, in your…state of mind."

Anger flashed in her eyes at that remark. "You think I'm a frail little child, don't you?"

Anthony couldn't suppress a small chuckle as he replied, "Well…yes."

Then her eyes narrowed, and her voice was quiet but defiant: "Well perhaps I'll prove to you that I'm not."

That scared him. "Johanna…don't. Don't say such things." He drew her into an embrace and kissed the top of her head. "I worry about you."

* * *

She knew he worried about her. He worried too much. He was too clinging. He life now was obviously a vast improvement over her previous situation under Judge Turpin's roof (her guardian had tried to get her to call him Father, but she'd never felt right about it and always called him "Your Honor" or "Mr. Turpin" or "Sir"); but she still _felt_ a prisoner in many ways. Anthony didn't lock her in, but he was so adamant that she not leave the house without him that she may as well have been held against her will. She knew her husband was concerned – knew he was trying to follow the physician's advice – but she was beginning to feel stronger. After all – Anthony had taken her far away; she was safe here. The barber's scarlet, knife-brandishing arm couldn't possibly reach across the Atlantic. Johanna had recently begun to accept that the only time she would ever see his face again was in her nightmares; and when she did dream about that night, she woke with the knowledge that her fears were only that – insubstantial dreams. Phantasms. Frightening, yes – but fictions concocted by her anxious memories.

And with this new increase in fortitude came an accompanying sense of indignation. Surely she hadn't been freed from Turpin only to end up in a softer prison?...

She'd been serious about seeking a job. There wasn't much she could do, granted; but perhaps she could learn as a shopkeeper's assistant or some such. And the more she thought about it, the more sensible it seemed to her. She'd nearly lost her head when she'd heard about that man who'd been killed. If anything were to happen to Anthony, what would become of her?...

Did she love him? She didn't know. She supposed she did. He was kind to her, took good care of her, did everything for her. She owed him so much. From the first moment she'd caught sight of him gazing up to her window at Turpin's house, she'd daydreamed the hours away by imagining Anthony as her destined lover, her ideal husband. Reality turned out to not quite match her imaginings; but then she supposed one could expect too much. She only knew that her first reaction on hearing the fate of Anthony's fellow worker had not been fear over losing her true love. It had been fear of completely practical matters. _If it had been Anthony, I'd be begging on the streets right this moment…or worse…_

I couldn't hurt to go for a walk, surely. She simply couldn't stay in the house anymore. It was a nice morning. She'd just go for a walk down to 63rd Street, it was close enough, and see if she could find any employment notices.

It couldn't hurt to just look.

* * *

Dr. Holmes observed the young lady with great interest. She'd come through his door so meekly – she'd hardly even made the bell ring! – like a lost blonde lamb. Heavens, she couldn't have been much more than…what, seventeen?

The druggist bounced around the counter to greet her, and as he drew closer he realized what a vision she really was: all that golden hair, falling in masses down her shoulders…that sweet, pale face, with just the right leavening of natural rose at the cheeks…those impossibly large, refreshingly bright blue eyes. Ah yes…she was a treasure.

"And what can I do for you today, my dear?" Holmes asked, suavely taking her hand without her even realizing he'd offered it.

"Good day to you, sir."

Hm, she was English. There seemed to be a propensity of them around lately. But her accent was cultured – enchanting in a different way than Mrs. Marlowe's casual drawl. And so polite, God bless her.

"I wondered," she went on, "if you might have the employment notices here?"

Oh. Ohhh, this was _just_ too good to be true.

"Why, my dear," Holmes gasped, "are you seeking employment?"

She nodded shyly, her gaze not quite meeting his. God, if she stayed in his sight much longer he might end up falling in love with her.

"And what positions have you previously held, miss?"

It was a crime against humanity, Holmes thought, to see her pretty face fall at his words. "Well sir…I never have worked before." Then she hastily added, "But I'm very willing to learn."

"Well now," Holmes reassured her, "don't trouble yourself about that, my dear. It's easily remedied. You happen to have stumbled upon a golden opportunity."

Her eyes lit up.

"I myself am seeking employees to work in my hotel, just across the way there. I have a variety of positions available – housekeeping, cooking, registering the guests. And as I'm sure you know, the Columbian Exposition begins very soon, so I'll need a full staff in short order."

The girl smiled. "Well…I thank you…I…I'm not sure if – "

"You think on it, miss; but fair warning, don't wait too long. There are many, many young ladies eager for work and as I said, I'll need to fill all positions forthwith."

She nodded, and her little pink tongue darted out to wet her lips as she hesitated. "I…shall I let you know tomorrow, sir?"

Holmes smiled. "That will be fine, my dear, just fine. Ah, might I inquire as to your name?"

"Johanna. Johanna Hope."

It was like poetry to him.

"I am Dr. H.H. Holmes – but please, call me just Holmes. All my friends do. And I hope I may be so bold as to call you Johanna?"

"Of course, sir."

He watched her move down the street after he showed her out, until she'd passed out of sight. This one was special. This one could not be rushed. This one demanded – deserved – to be savored, and he spent the rest of the day thinking of what he'd like to see happen – what he'd like to do – to that creamy, rosy flesh.

* * *

Sweeney Todd was in his office looking through a medical treatise he'd recently acquired, studying the intricate network of veins and arteries that snaked their way through the human form, when he heard the street door crash open, accompanied by men's raised voices.

When he stomped out to the waiting area, the feeling struck him that he'd been through this before, all too recently: four men were struggling through the door, supporting between them a shapeless mass of mangled clothing that Sweeney suspected concealed an injured man.

"What's this?" he asked tonelessly.

"Fell off a scaffold, sir," one of them said. "At the shipyard."

_Bloody shipyard's becoming a right regular deathtrap,_ Sweeney thought absently as he wordlessly jerked his head towards the treatment room. The men followed him in and, without waiting for instructions from the surgeon, gently deposited their burden on the table and remained in the room while Sweeney busied himself in tying on his apron, pulling on his rubber gloves. "How far did he fall?"

"About ten feet."

"Hit his head?"

"Yes sir, you can see – "

Indeed, Sweeney hadn't looked at the victim too closely at first. Now, when he turned and really registered the man, the dark, glistening, matted condition of his otherwise fair hair answered the question. Gingerly, not yet knowing the extent of the damage, Sweeney reached out and pushed the bloody mess from his patient's eyes –

Recognition crashed into his mind like a runaway train.

Anthony Hope.

He had to get these men out of the building.

Collecting himself as well as he could against the thoughts and memories flooding in on him, he looked up, smiling with professional politeness, and said "I'll need to work alone, you understand."

"Oh!" said one of the men. "Of course. We'll just wait – "

"No…no, I'm sure I'll need to keep him overnight, in his condition."

"Well in that case sir, shouldn't he be in a hospital?" the stranger pressed, glancing to his companions, who nodded their agreement.

"Oh no, that won't be necessary," said Sweeney, approaching the small group and placing a hand on the spokesman's shoulder, starting to usher him out. "This is only a precaution."

"We'll come back tomorrow, then."

"Now, there won't be any need for that. By tomorrow he'll be able to go home and I'll personally hire a carriage to take him there in comfort."

"At least we should tell his wife what happened."

Sweeney froze – felt his heart stop beating for just the fraction of a moment –

_Johanna! –_

– then forced himself to speak, his voice coming out in exactly the same suave tone as it used to when he'd offer men a shave on Fleet Street. "Well, I'll be happy to inform her myself. Might be less of a shock if she hears it straight from the doctor." He was inventing wildly, knowing that people typically swallowed without question anything a medical man said. "If you'll leave me her name and address I'll take care of the matter straightaway."

He offered a small notepad to the group in general, and one of the men took it and scribbled a few lines. Sweeney didn't look at it as he showed the men out the door. He didn't need to. He knew what name he'd see there.

When his visitors were well down the street, Sweeney pulled the shades, closed the shutters, took in his sign, and locked the door before returning to the treatment room.

He stood in the doorway a moment, considering the situation. His first thought, of course, was of his daughter – his eyes drifted down to Anthony's left hand: sure enough, a golden band shone there. Sweeney couldn't imagine who else the former sailor would have married…it had to be…His head swam with the impossibility of it all: she was _here_, in this city – his Johanna, in the very same place he'd settled on, out of all the places in the world – in this vast country alone – where Anthony could have taken her. What were the chances of such a thing? How long had she been living here? And _now_, after all this time, after he'd let her memory go – _now_ she comes bolting back into his life, when he'd reconciled himself to never seeing her again, to being satisfied with the mere knowledge that she was happy and safe…

But was he? Had he ever been, really? How then to explain the dreams he'd been having? He'd only told Nellie about the one; but there'd been others – horrific visions of Johanna's life ending at his hands; watching Turpin tear her from her rightful home…watching her mother take the poison, deserting the infant as she wailed in hunger from her crib…

Sweeney physically shook the nightmare recollections from his head and turned to the more immediate problem: the man lying at his mercy on his operating table. Johanna had her father now, she didn't need Anthony Hope. Sweeney didn't need him either, to find her – he looked down to the now-creased notepaper he still held in his hand, gazed on the address as if staring at it hard enough would transport him there. He would go and bring her home, and take care of her. He'd make it all up to her: being gone so long, missing her growing up, not being there for her, not protecting her from Turpin. She would live with him and Nellie and Toby and be very happy. A thin, unconscious smile came to Sweeney's lips as he imagined the look on Nellie's face when he told her this news. He knew she'd always fancied taking Johanna in, even after Toby had come into her life – especially since she couldn't have any children of her own. Sweeney understood, without her ever really telling him right out, that she'd always wanted _his _child, and he knew how that impossibility tortured her deep down. But now, with Johanna within his reach…This was all so perfect.

These thoughts reassured him as he moved to his cabinet and withdrew the scalpel from its protective case, ready to slash Anthony's throat and dispatch him before he came to, clearing his way to Johanna while eliminating another thorny issue: If his patient woke up and recognized Sweeney, he'd unquestionably take his high moral sensibilities straight to the authorities; and Sweeney did not want to risk the forced necessity of running again. Fall River had been bad enough – and here, now, there was no clever, well-connected John Morse and a pack of crazy Irishmen to help them if a bloodthirsty mob decided to burn the house down over their heads in the dead of night.

The surgical knife was just pressed to the young man's jugular, when another thought hit Sweeney Todd, and it stopped him cold.

Who was he trying to fool? Johanna had seen his face that night he'd nearly killed her – he'd told her to forget it, but really, that was an impossible expectation. He could tell himself all he wanted that she wouldn't recognize him when she saw him again, but he knew she would. How could she not? How could he _possibly_ show himself to her? She'd turn and run screaming from him.

And telling her he was her father? Forcing upon her the knowledge that her own father had tried – though unwittingly – to kill her?

And assuming she did, by some miracle, find it possible to accept him – facing her inevitable queries about her mother's fate? Needing to lie to her?

Out of the question altogether.

He realized that he couldn't very well take Anthony away from her if he himself wasn't able to step in and care for her.

Then a whole series of images flashed through Todd's mind: memories of being tossed on the waves in pitch darkness, lost, clinging desperately to his shoddy raft; chilled not only with the seawater that seemed to seep into his very bones, but with the imaginings of what might be lurking just below the surface of the waves; sure of certain death without food or water – and a voice, a shout, a ladder thrown to him, hands pulling him over the rail of a ship. That had been Anthony Hope's voice.

Sweeney Todd owed this man his life. There had been times – every day – on Fleet Street after his return, when he'd cursed the young sailor for saving him, wished he'd left him to die or simply hadn't spotted him. But now…If he'd perished on the open sea, he'd never have found his Eleanor, wouldn't be with her now.

And then there was the fact that Anthony had brought Johanna here, as far from London as he could take her – surely to protect her from her memories.

_From me…_

So he owed this man three things: his life, his love, and his daughter's happiness.

Sweeney Todd was not a kind man; but he wasn't one to despise a debt, either.

His shoulders slumped, and he sighed as he replaced the scalpel. It was too cruel – his Johanna was here, nearby, and he was denied her. Again.

Better all around to just get the young man out of his sight and dismiss the entire incident. Having settled on this course of action, Sweeney decided to telephone for an ambulance to transfer Anthony to a hospital before he woke up. But just as he was leaving the room to do this, a stirring behind him got his attention: young Mr. Hope was coming to his senses.

* * *

Anthony thought at first that he might have been buried alive.

He woke engulfed in darkness, a hard surface at his back, his head throbbing sickeningly, the coppery taste of his own blood in his mouth. He tried to move and couldn't – he shifted slightly, making an effort to at least stretch his hands, and discovered two things. First, his left wrist screamed in agony when he attempted to bend it. And second, he was constrained. He bent his good arm – there was some slack, then a taut stop, and he supposed he was bound with some kind of strap.

"I'd lie still if I were you."

The deep male voice made him jump and twist his head towards the sound – the movement caused agony to flood through his brain, a sick white light flashing across the black field of his vision while bile rose in his throat.

He stilled, but his spinning head tried to tell him he was still moving.

"Where am I?" he gasped

"Don't worry, I'm a surgeon," the stranger replied. Anthony felt the man's presence now, moving around to his side; strong hands grasped his right arm and squeezed down to the wrist.

"What are you doing?..."

"Checking for broken bones. What's your name, lad?" the voice said.

"Anthony Hope."

"D'you remember what happened?"

"I – I can't see – "

"I've bound your eyes. With your head in such a condition, any amount of light would be rather painful for you at the moment." Having finished with the right arm, the surgeon moved on to the left.

"I think my wrist is – "

And just at that moment, the doctor's rough hands found the wrist, causing Anthony's jaw to clench. The surgeon uttered a small grunt and moved on to assess the condition of his patient's legs.

"Why have you restrained me?"

There was a pause.

"Couldn't risk you tryin' to get up off that table, shape you're in."

The voice was low and grumbly, almost too calm – familiar, somehow, though Anthony couldn't have said just what, or whom, it reminded him of. But there was something about it he didn't quite trust, gave him a chill…

"My wife…does she know?...I need to get a message to her…"

Anthony thought he felt the surgeon's hands pause for just the slightest moment, before he said "Calm down, son" and continued. When he reached the ankle, a sudden pang caused Anthony to flinch involuntarily, sucking in a hissing breath.

"Johanna – "

The surgeon's hands abruptly withdrew. "That your wife's name?" he asked, his footsteps clicking slowly, casually back around the table. A moment later Anthony felt a pressure on his ribcage.

"Yes. She needs to know – "

"I'll take care of it," the voice rumbled softly, just before the heel of the hand on Anthony's ribs stopped his breath and sent a pain through him like a knife wound.

"Hm," the doctor noised, and left the table. Anthony heard his steps again, heard what sounded like the opening of a cupboard door. "You have some broken bones and a bad concussion," the man growled. "I'm going to give you some morphine for the pain, splint your breaks, and stitch up your head. Then you're going to the hospital. I can't keep you here overnight."

Anthony listened to his caretaker rummaging in the cupboard, procuring supplies, and tried to think of where he'd heard that low rumble before. "Your voice is familiar, sir. Have we met?"

"Oh, we may have." A sting in his left arm and an immediate pleasant sleepiness told Anthony the morphine was being administered.

"Well, I can tell you're a fellow Englishman, at least. Were you ever in the British Merchant Navy, sir?"

"No. But I have been at sea from time to time."

Then it clicked – that same voice, long ago, telling him _"If you hadn't spotted me, I'd be lost on the ocean still…"_

_No…it can't be…_

All thought of his physical condition vanished as unmitigated horror gripped his mind. How in God's name was this happening?...It was impossibly unreal – the barber _here_, of all places…and Anthony was, at the moment, completely at his mercy – so to speak…

"My God!" he shouted, pulling desperately at the straps that held him down; and he heard a deadly smile in Sweeney Todd's voice as he said "Closer than you know, son."

Anthony thrashed against the restraints at this remark, but his ribs shrieked past the morphine and he was forced to lie still, struggling for breath but managing to snarl "Don't touch me!" when he felt Todd's hands on his injured ankle. His captor made no reply, but to Anthony's surprise began working on the fracture, as if genuinely trying to repair it.

"What is all this," Anthony gasped. "A _surgeon_? You murderer?!"

"Just now I'm _your_ surgeon, my friend, so I suggest you do as I say."

"I'm not your friend, you sick bastard," Anthony seethed. "You and that foul woman – "

His voice dissolved in a scream of agony that even the morphine didn't touch as Todd twisted his foot and growled, "Don't…ever."

At this, Anthony shocked even himself by laughing sardonically. "She's still with you. You brought her here with you…'course you would, I might have known..."_ Can't imagine any two deserving each other more…_

Todd made no reply; and Anthony himself was forced to remain silent, clenching his teeth against the brutal ministrations of this killer, who inexplicably kept working to heal him, though going about the task rather viciously…

When the ankle was splinted, Todd moved to Anthony's head and mumbled "No need for this anymore," and yanked off the blindfold, then began methodically – and skillfully – binding up the rest of the man's injuries. This rather confused Anthony, and still blinking against the onslaught of light after God only know how long in darkness, he said, "Why are you doing this, Todd? I know who you are – I could see you hanged in a heartbeat."

Anthony thought he saw a small smile appear on the former barber's lips as he answered: "I don't think you will, son."

"Try me. As if there weren't enough reasons, you tried to kill my Johanna. After making me believe she'd be safe with you. You lured her there through me, you bastard…"

Todd's eyes shot up to glare murderously at his patient. "Didn't know she was _your Johanna_, did I? Seein' you went and dressed her up like a bloke." Then he returned to his task, jerking the bandage he was winding around Anthony's ribs a bit too tightly.

"To answer your question," Todd said suddenly – "I'm doing this because you saved my life once, and I've been in your debt. And now…you're in mine. That's one reason you won't turn me in. The second – well, who was it brought me back to London in the first place? Who was it plucked me up out of the open sea?"

Anthony did not like where this was beginning to lead…

Todd was smirking, an ironic light dancing in his eyes, as he seated himself on a stool and raised his hand, bearing a threaded needle, to Anthony's temple. "You asked no questions when you did that, and I was grateful. But you might've been a bit more careful. How d'you think the authorities will take it if they find out it was _you_ what aided and abetted a convicted felon in his escape from a life sentence? With the result that said convict was only set loose to…do what I've done? How d'you think they'll look at that little tidbit, hey?"

Anthony was suddenly sick with dread. He'd had a suspicion, back when he'd helped Todd aboard the _Bountiful_, that he might have been a convict – who else would be drifting on the open water on a hand-made raft in that part of the world? But he was also well aware that many of those men were exiled on trumped-up charges concocted by greedy, envious men of ambition; and he'd hoped Sweeney Todd was one of those. Now he knew better – it was clear from his subsequent deeds that Todd had from the beginning possessed a character more than capable of assuring his guilt in whatever crime he'd been transported for. But at the time, Anthony had thought that, criminal or no, it would be wrong and cruel to watch any human being in danger of certain death and do nothing to help if assistance was within one's power. Only now did he understand: that very sense of mercy had caused more suffering, more evil, than one act of compassion could possibly balance out. Todd was right – Anthony himself was, in a way, just as responsible for those senseless deaths as the barber and his accomplice were. And he knew beyond doubt that if discovered, Todd would not hesitate to make good on this threat – he would tell the authorities the whole story, dragging Anthony down to destruction with him. And then what would happen to Johanna?...

God almighty. Todd had him, and knew it, judging from the expression of demonic glee dancing over his face as he worked the needle through the gash in the side of Anthony's head. Finally, when the fiend was done with his work, he said, "I'll order the ambulance," and made to leave the room; but Anthony stopped him.

"Todd."

The barber turned.

"I'll stay away from you, if you stay away from me and my wife. I won't set the law on you…just…don't try to find me. Leave us alone."

At first, it seemed Todd wanted to speak – but in the end he said nothing, only turned and stalked out. Anthony heard his voice in the next room – really ordering an ambulance.

* * *

Nellie was not happy. At all.

"Bloody brilliant, Sweeney," she was saying, standing by the window in the parlor, hands on her hips, shaking her head. "Shoulda' slit that bloke's throat when I told you to," she added quietly, almost as if to herself.

"He saved my life, Nell," Sweeney snarled. He'd told her about the encounter with Anthony Hope today because he wanted some comfort from her, about Johanna; and she'd started raging at him for letting the blighter go, taking such a risk.

"Yeah, well, I didn't know that at the time, did I? Bleedin' great fool's never been anythin' but a nuisance to you and me – "

"He got Johanna away from Turpin."

"Nothin' what _you_ couldn't've done yourself, Sweeney." She took a deep breath and turned away from him. "I thought Fall River would've taught us all somethin'. I can't believe you'd put us all at risk like this. Not when we have a real chance at…" Her voice trailed off.

"I had no choice, Nell!" Sweeney barked. "What should I have done? I can't leave Johanna on her own – "

She turned back to face him then, and her voice was softer. "What d'you want to do about Johanna, then? Knowin' she's here."

He shook his head. When he answered, his tone did not match his wife's; he was still too agitated and confused, and his head was pounding. "I don't know."

Nellie nodded thoughtfully. "He know you're her father?"

Sweeney shook his head.

She nodded. "Perhaps that's for the best, then."

His brow furrowed. This was his sense as well, but he wanted to hear her explanation. "Why so?..."

"Well…I thought you'd left all that behind," she answered quietly. "No ghosts, you told me."

He stood mutely, shaking his head in disbelief. He very well remembered saying that to her, and he'd meant it. But now…now that his child was so close…He simply didn't know anymore. "I can't talk to you about this," he said, throwing up his hands and starting to walk away.

"Wait a minute, hang on," Nellie's voice stopped him.

"Nell, I'm tired, I just want – "

Her eyes narrowed. "Want what? Nice tot o' gin?"

"Think I'm entitled to one, after this day."

"Just thought you'd rather wait 'till I'm asleep, or 'till you think I am, more like."

He rounded on her, infuriated – less because she'd accused him in such an acid tone, than because she was right. "Goddamn it, she's my _daughter!_" he raged, striding across the room towards her. "My own flesh and blood! You don't know what that's like!"

_Ah, shit,_ he thought, when he saw her face at that callous remark. Hoping to make her forget it was said, he plowed on: "What the bleedin' hell d'you want from me?! I never thought I'd see her again when I said that to you!"

Her eyes widened in rage. "Oh, I see. So long as you thought you couldn't feed your past anymore, it was all right; but now – "

His head was pounding. All he wanted was alcohol and his warm bed. "I thought you'd be thrilled that I'd found her again! You always said – "

"I know what I always said, but now…that's over, Sweeney, that part of your life; it's gone, and I don't know if I could accept you havin' a constant reminder of it. I know she's your daughter, but if you brought her back I'd have to live with the fact that every time you look at her she's going to make you think of – "

"_Damn_ it, Lucy! Why can't y – "

The look on her face – as though he'd physically struck her, or stabbed her – stopped him. At first, he wasn't sure why, and mumbled "What – " But then he saw tears collecting in her eyes, her lips silently forming the words _Oh my God_, and he realized what he'd said. Suddenly he felt as though his heart was being gripped by a steel fist.

"Nell – "

She held up a hand, tears escaping though she was trying to blink them back – shook her head at him – said "Get away from me."

He reached for her, whispered her name again, moved to take hold of her – felt the sharp sting of her hand as it connected hard with the side of his face. Never – _never_, not once – had she touched him in anger. But he couldn't say the same – far from it…

…_gripped her arm and shoved her roughly away from him – "Get the door, I said" – and a moment later his hands were around her throat…_

His head was reeling, sick and lightheaded –

"Get out."

"No."

"_Get out of my sight,"_ she growled through gritted teeth.

"_No_ – "

She turned away from him again, but he seized her arms and forced her to face him. "Damn it…I don't know why that happened – "

She laughed at that, bitterly. "Don't you? You really don't understand why you'd call me a name that's not mine? Perhaps it's because_ that name is always in your head to begin with?_"

"Nellie – "

"Don't…don't you dare say my name _now_, you…" She started to tremble, violently. "I can't live like this anymore…I can't live with your ghosts and your dreams and your leaving our bed to drink yourself senseless over them."

_Shit._ What was she saying?...

"Look at me, Nell."

She didn't. "You'll always be sorry, but you'll never stop anyway, will you? God…" and she started laughing, a hysterical, silent laugh that shook her whole frame. "I really thought you loved me. What a bloody great fool."

The steel fist twisted in his chest. "Stop this, you know I do – "

The laughter stopped; her head moved slowly back and forth as she finally met his eyes and hissed, _"Liar."_

He swallowed. Her eyes, nearly black with hurt and fury, told him she wasn't joking – she wanted him gone.

Well, he would go. Give her time to cool down. They could patch this up in the morning. "Right," he said, moving away from her. "As you like. I'll stay tonight at the shop."

Then, just as he reached the door, something hard struck the wood right by his head. Bleeding hell, had she just thrown something at him?!...He turned, but her back was to him and her head was down, so he looked about on the floor –

There, about two yards from his feet, lying where it had landed as it ricocheted off the door, winking in the gaslight, was her wedding ring.

His mouth went dry.

Numb, he picked it up. "Put it back on," he said.

"No." Her voice was thick; he could tell she was weeping outright now.

He marched over to her, grabbed her, whipped her around to face him. "Put it back on," he hissed.

"Take your hands off me."

"Tell me you really mean this, and I will."

Her eyes dropped, and she muttered, "I really mean – "

He gripped her harder, digging his fingertips into her flesh, and shook her. "_Look_ me in the eyes and tell me you really mean this!"

She did raise her eyes to him then, and said softly, "You have no idea what you've done to me tonight."

Her tears weren't stopping. Sweeney didn't know what to say to her anymore – so he pulled her to him, trying to embrace her, to show her his regret, needing to feel her respond. But she struggled against him, pushing him away, telling him to let her go. She'd never refused any effort at affection from him, hadn't even turned him down gently. She'd certainly never pushed him away. It did something to him inside, killed something in him – convinced him, more than any words could have, that she was done with him.

He dropped his grip on her arms – knowing he'd given her bruises, hating himself for it and wishing he could stay to make them vanish somehow. But she wasn't looking at him anymore. She didn't even watch as he moved to the door; but when his hand turned the knob, he heard her voice, soft but unyielding:

"Don't come back."

* * *

Sweeney was pacing his shop in the darkness when the knock came.

_Finally!_ he thought. She'd come around. About time. He had to stop himself from running to the door.

But when he reached the door, he opened it to find Toby standing on the stoop, looking murderous and holding out a small white envelope. "Forget somethin', did you?" the boy said.

Sweeney took the envelope – there was a small bulge in it, and it rattled when he shook it slightly. "What's the message?" he said.

Toby smirked, reminding Todd far too much of himself. "I think what you've got there should be sufficient. And this is comin' from _her_, not from me. She just told me to give this to you."

The lad looked as if he was going to spit on the doorframe for a moment, but he only shook his head and said, "You even had me fooled for a bit there, Mr. T." Then he turned and marched off down the street without another word.

Sweeney closed the door, wondering what could possibly be in this envelope. Wasting no more time to find out, he popped the flap open and shook the contents out into his palm –

It was the sapphire ring.

His breath caught. The envelope fluttered to the floor.

Damn her. Curse her. Returning this…no note, no message, just…this…

It was worse than discarding her wedding ring. At least she'd done that in a fit of anger, in the heat of the moment, as it were. This, she'd had time to think about…It was as if, in returning _this_ ring, she was returning everything that had gone along with it – the words he'd said to her that night, how she'd clung to him, the way they'd made love – trusting, withholding nothing…He'd poured out his whole self to her like a libation, and here she was - taking it all back, throwing it in his face, acting as if none of it had ever happened.

No, worse. Far worse. She wasn't denying that it happened – she was simply telling him it didn't matter anymore.

The stone blinking mutely up at him spoke more loudly than any words she might have written in a note.

One slip…one mistake he didn't even understand, and he'd destroyed everything he'd begun living for.

The automatic response of anger swelled in him as he slammed the ring down onto a nearby cabinet and began furiously pacing the floor. She'd betrayed him. She supposedly loved him so damned much – well, she was proving now that all that had been a lie. She was a liar. He should have known better. He _knew_ she was a liar and yet he'd allowed himself to trust her again, had laid himself wide open for this. She was just like all the others, all the rest of them, filthy selfish liars. He should've finished the job he'd started in that blasted bake house. He should've dashed her brains out against the stone floor while he was throttling her that night, that would've done away with all his problems right then and there…

He stalked over to the cabinet, opened it up, and grabbed a towel to wipe his face dry of the sudden wetness he felt on his cheeks. The rough cloth chafed his lips and he tasted salt as he licked them – suddenly his eyes fell on the ring, the blue stone sitting where he'd left it on the cabinet, and he realized his vision was hazy.

Something shattered in him then – water was flowing from his eyes uncontrollably; he was shaking, struggling to simply draw breath, and for the first time in nearly twenty years, the man broke down, sank to his knees, and wept.

* * *

**A/N:** Not my best work, I think...**Please review** - I don't ask because I'm a review whore (no, really I don't ;)) but because reviews really help my writing - let me know what work here and what doesn't, what can be improved etc. :) As always - thanks for reading!


	6. Family

**Disclaimers:** See Prologue.

**A/N: **Thanks to everyone who's following this story, especially those who've reviewed and subscribed! Your thoughts and comments are so helpful as I continue to shape this tale. I was very wary of even posting this story, wasn't sure how it was going to be received after "When Sweeney Met Lizzie"; but you, gentle readers, have bolstered my confidence. :)

Speaking of WSML...It now has over 2,200 hits, so if you're among the folks who read that, thank you again for making it so successful!

Now let's see how our favorite broken-up couple is doing... ;)

* * *

**5**

**Family.**

_Mr. Howard:_  
_Request news of Turpin estate stop__  
Johanna Hope_

Having assessed Anthony's condition when visiting him at the hospital that morning, Johanna deemed it wise to determine whether her inheritance – if any – from her deceased guardian might be at least partially forthcoming. That the judge had left her anything was in doubt, since the man had, incredibly, died without any sort of last will and testament in place – witness, Johanna mused, to his gargantuan conceit and resulting sense of invincibility. This state of legal limbo, combined with the dastardly circumstances of Turpin's demise and the ongoing investigation, held his estate in a general bureaucratic morass. A certain Inspector Howard of Scotland Yard, one of the men in charge of the Fleet Street case who had been in close contact with Anthony and Johanna before their departure from England, had agreed to keep an eye out for any developments in this particular area; and after realizing that her husband would not be returning to his work any time in the near future, Johanna found herself hoping that the situation was beginning to resolve, and now accordingly stood in the telegraph office, offering a silent prayer that she would soon hear good news.

Not that she would be destitute. They had a little savings; but it wouldn't last long, so Johanna found herself going back in her mind to that Mr. Holmes and his hotel in need of a staff. Her heart thumped nervously at the thought of him. She had promised him to return the day after their first meeting – three days had now passed, and she doubted if his offer of employment would still stand. Then there was always the possibility that work – or at least, this kind of work – might not be suited to her…Still, it couldn't hurt to ask…If Holmes did hire her, it needn't last long – Anthony didn't have to know at first; and if he really objected when he found out, she could always quit. In the meantime it would do her good to get out of the house and do for herself for a change…and who knew, Anthony might even be proud of her for taking matters into her own hands and dealing so well with things in a pinch…

A visit to Holmes was on her mental list of things to accomplish today, but not until she'd done something even more pressing. Anthony's doctors had informed her that his injuries had been initially treated by a surgeon on 63rd Street – a man who had shown considerable skill in his ministrations and made the hospital's job much easier. Johanna had inquired of this man's name, so that she could thank him for being the first to take such good care of her husband. So before setting out for Mr. Holmes, Johanna withdrew a slip of paper from her pocketbook, looked one more time at the address the hospital nurse had scrawled there, and directed her steps towards the clinic of Dr. Vincent T. Marlowe.

* * *

Sweeney Todd stood in his treatment room, leaning his back against the wall, arms crossed, glaring down at the operating table with furrowed brow and a scowl even deeper than usual, watching the life slip away from his current patient. He didn't feel like saving anyone today. This man had come in – or rather, was brought in, semi-conscious, by his brother – with deep, erratic gashes in both wrists – an attempted suicide. Sweeney had, at first, moved to bind the man up as well as possible and prepare for another attempt at blood transfusion, with the brother as donor. Then, deciding he simply didn't want to see the man walk out of there, he simply stood and watched him die.

It wasn't as exciting as he would've wished. Not quite…proactive enough for him. Certainly, in his new capacity, while he indeed had the power to end a life, it couldn't be quite as…_animated_ as it had been in his old life as a barber. Well, it _could_ – theoretically – but he was constrained to report all deaths in his establishment to the coroner, and of course certain…marks and such would rouse suspicion.

_Then again, why should I care?_ he thought, with a little bitter sniff. What was there to lie low for now? What did he have to lose?...

There was still Nellie. He'd been to see her just that morning – well, not to speak to her, of course; but just to look at her through her shop window. He'd gone to Holmes' drug store on some superfluous errand to purchase new splints or some such, which he really didn't need, just for the sake of being able to look across the street and see her going about her work. He had, in fact, been doing this for the past three days, standing outside Holmes' shop in what he hoped was a casual way, trying to act as if he was simply taking the air. He had no idea whether she saw him. If she did, she gave no indication before disappearing into the kitchen. Sometimes he'd see Toby there too, helping his mother; and Todd hated to acknowledge the pang he felt even on seeing that boy. This was what he stayed for, this was why he had to toe the line – or appear to. If he was caught, imprisoned – hanged, or electrocuted – he'd never be able to lay eyes on her again, even in such a pathetic, furtive manner.

He'd made a vow to her, never to leave her; and as much as part of him wanted to kill her for hurting him so deeply (_again_), he loved her, more than he'd thought possible; and that alone bound him to his promise.

Besides – irresponsibility was not among his faults, many though they might be. He knew the blame for this lay squarely with himself. And for that, he wasn't sure if anything could ever be suitable punishment.

Lucy. _Damn._ He hadn't even thought of the woman, except in comparison to his feelings for Eleanor, since that night he'd burned the photographs in Fall River...Why had he spoken her name? He'd tortured himself endlessly over this question for the past three days. Never before had he let that name slip when addressing Eleanor – truthfully, when he was around her the thought of Lucy never even entered his head. That was largely why he'd allowed things to go as far as they had back on Fleet Street: it hadn't taken him long to discover that Nellie somehow had the power to make him forget what he'd lost, the things he longed for and could never have – for a short time, at first, when such a brief respite was all he'd wanted; but after a while, for longer and longer stretches, until the forgetfulness began seeping past his time in her physical presence and into his mind even when he was apart from her. And, well, the rest was, proverbially, history…

Had it been because they were discussing Johanna at the time? This was plausible. Johanna was his daughter with Lucy, who'd been his wife – and he was talking about her with the woman who was his wife now. And just before his outburst, Nellie herself had been talking about Lucy, though she hadn't actually spoken the woman's name.

All this was giving Todd a headache – well, it was worsening the one he already had. He was drinking too much again. And Nellie had been right about that, too…

With a sigh, he straightened and approached his charge, placing two fingers on the man's pulse point at the neck. Nothing.

Where was the elation he was supposed to feel – wanted to feel, at the exercise of this authority over life and death? It wasn't the same…not without her, not without her helping him in some way, assisting him, even if only by her knowing what he was doing and keeping silent about it because she knew it was what he somehow needed. It wasn't the same without her to go home to, and complete his triumph by feeling her yield to him, by pouring all his exhilaration into her just as in the past he'd delivered her all his anguish…

Todd pulled the sheet over the patient's head and ambled out to the waiting area.

It never ceased to fascinate him – the way people always jumped out of their seat when he appeared from the treatment room. No matter who they were – man, woman, rich, poor, whatever – their reactions were always identical. This leaping up with such an anxious expression. Sometimes, Todd thought it was in _this_ moment, more than any other, that he truly felt like a god.

"I'm sorry," he said emotionlessly, turning away from the brother's devastated expression. "There was nothing I could do." And he retreated to his office to notify the coroner.

That esteemed personage never failed to answer the surgeon's summons promptly; and within the hour Sweeney had answered all the standard questions and signed all the requisite forms; and the cause of death was, unsurprisingly, deemed self-inflicted. When the body was cleared out and he found himself alone, Sweeney took in his sign, darkened the windows, and holed up in his office with a large tumbler full of supposedly medicinal brandy. He battled himself for about twenty minutes before opening the bottom drawer of his desk and removing the picture frame he'd stashed there, placing it in front of him and staring at it, staring at his Eleanor's still image, as if his eyes would shatter the glass.

He didn't know how long he sat like this before he heard the outside door open and close gently – he'd forgotten to lock the damn thing – followed by a light, hesitant step crossing the waiting area.

"Go away," he muttered, raising the brandy to his lips.

"Dr. Marlowe?..."

The voice was feminine, timid, the voice of a well-bred young Englishwoman. Sweeney opened his mouth to call out to her, tell her to leave, that he wasn't seeing patients today –

"Dr. Marlowe, I…I'm sorry to disturb you, but…I'll only take a moment of your time…"

_Bugger._ The woman needed help, or she wouldn't be looking for a surgeon. Sweeney sighed deeply and rose, cursing his weakness for vulnerable women in trouble. Without announcing himself, he crossed to the office door and slowly, silently opened it –

– and the breath was knocked out of him as surely as if he'd been punched in the gut by an iron glove.

Her back was to him – she was looking at an engraving of the Port of Chicago that graced one of the walls – but even in the dimness he could see her yellow hair, cascading in golden waves down her shoulders, shining even without the aid of sunlight or gaslight, as if possessed of a radiance of its own.

Just like her mother.

Sweeney staggered against the doorframe and finally sucked in a ragged gasp of air – she began to turn towards the sound, and he only just caught her profile, her beautiful pale complexion and – yes – as she turned, a hint of blue in her eye – as if she'd escaped his dreams to materialize here before him –

He ducked back through the door and slammed it just in time. His heart pounded hard against his ribs – had she seen him?...He reached out and turned the lock, just as he heard her step tentatively approach the door, and heard her call out his false name again.

He tried to reply, but his voice caught in his knotted throat. Breathing hard, as if he'd just run three city blocks at full tilt, he swallowed and collected himself enough to shout "I can't see anyone just now. I'm…indisposed."

"Oh," she said. "Well, I only wanted to thank you, sir, properly, in person. You treated my husband three days ago; perhaps you remember, his name is Anthony Hope…"

Sweeney clenched his teeth, squeezed his eyes shut, let his head fall back against the wall, let her sweet, quiet voice wash over him through the door as she reminded him of the details. "The doctors at the hospital said you gave him excellent care, and…I wanted to thank you."

He'd set eyes on her, he was hearing her voice. His baby girl. He was exultant. He was devastated. It was killing him.

"Yes," he said, striving to keep his own voice steady. "You're most welcome." His hands were clenching and releasing, over and over. _Don't – don't open the door –_ He finally crossed his arms, securing his tempted hands firmly behind his elbows so they couldn't get to the lock.

"Well…if there's ever anything we can do for you, sir…"

He didn't answer. Couldn't. Behind his closed lids played images he'd thought had faded to nothingness long ago: sunny days strolling with his baby and her mother, quiet evenings playing with his little one on the hearth rug while Lucy darned his socks. How it felt to really smile. How it felt to laugh.

After a moment of silence beyond the door, her graceful footsteps began retreating back the way they'd come, until the street door opened and closed softly, and she was gone.

Drained and weak from this pseudo-encounter, Sweeney rolled onto the door, his forehead and hands resting against its hard, cold surface. "You're just like I always imagined, my sweet," he whispered to the smooth polished wood, and smiled his sad, weary smile.

* * *

Toby had tried to make her stay home, said he'd be able to run the shop; but his mum had told him she couldn't be in the house alone all day. He'd sighed and nodded, understanding why: she couldn't be alone in the house for any length of time, for the same reason she'd slept on the sofa in the parlor last night. And Toby could tell by the distress she tried so valiantly to hide from him that even that attempt to ease her sorrow hadn't helped. Sweeney Todd's memory, the residue of his energy, was everywhere in that house.

That first night, when Toby had overheard his guardians' quarrel and roundly applauded his mother for throwing the bastard out on his ear, he'd volunteered to return the sapphire ring Mr. Todd had given her when he'd seen her take it off and mumble something about not being able to return it in person. Then he'd heard her sobbing in the wee hours of the morning and had gone in and sat with her, listening to her choke out the name _Sweeney_ repeatedly until the exhaustion of grief overtook her and she finally slept. Toby had been well ready to return to Todd's "shop" then and there and kill him for what he'd done to her. And the lad knew he was more than capable. He'd killed a man before; and he suspected it might only be easier the second time. He glanced towards his mother now, sitting at the small table in the shop kitchen – gazing out the window, one hand clutching an ever-present tear-soaked handkerchief and supporting her chin, the other loosely wrapped around a fat tumbler of whiskey, one-third full – and suddenly saw this scene only being replayed again and again endlessly into the future, as long as Sweeney Todd was still around. She'd never stop pining for him till she wasted away from – well, Toby figured it was lovesickness, plain and simple. He ground his teeth and told himself she'd be better off without the possibility of the man coming back into her life only to mar it again.

Business was slow that day, and Toby had gone to the kitchen to start on a new batch of crust for the raspberry tarts. He now began pounding the ingredients together with a vengeance; but trying to take out his rage in this way only served to fuel it, and he found himself resolving to pay Mr. Todd a visit after the shop closed today. If he was honest with himself, he had to admit – albeit briefly, and reluctantly – that his mum wasn't his only reason for wanting to smash Todd's head like he was currently smashing the pastry dough. He himself missed the man. He'd gotten used to him being around. He'd even tried to see him as a kind of father, now that he'd married Toby's adoptive mother.

Honestly, Toby had begun to think that Todd had really loved his mother. Otherwise, why had the man destroyed those photographs – the ones of his first wife and his daughter? Toby had seen Todd do this with his own eyes, back in Fall River: he'd asked _"Do you love her?"_ – meaning his mum – and Todd's answer had been to take his pictures of this Lucy person, his only mementoes of her, as far as Toby could tell, and burn them to ashes in the bakery sink. Toby had been reassured then; but now he simply didn't know what to make of it all. Why would Todd bid his past farewell in such a final, absolute manner and then prove that it was still at the front of his mind by momentarily forgetting his current wife's name? Why would he have married her? Why had he seemed so perfectly content when Toby had accidentally entered his guardians' room while they slept and observed them holding each other so close, Mr. Todd unconsciously cradling then-Mrs. Lovett so snug against him? Toby thought he'd seen such devotion, such adoration in Todd's typically-cold eyes as he said his vows to her at the wedding, even though the rest of him was surly and quiet and stiff, as if he didn't want anyone to see what was really in his heart, not even the woman standing before him.

And then the thing that really made Toby pause: why had Mr. Todd been willing to stay behind in Fall River and give himself up to a murderous mob, surrendering himself so Toby and his mum could escape? That was a rare thing, that was: Toby had seen enough of the world to know that people generally operated by a sense of self-preservation; he knew no one would do what Mr. Todd had done unless love – very strong, deep love – was the motive.

When he'd taken the ring to Mr. Todd the night it all happened, he'd noticed that the man looked _horrible_, his skin even paler and the shadows under his eyes even more pronounced than usual. And this morning, he'd noticed his mum didn't look much better. Both of them were like walking corpses. As if they were slowly dying without each other. And if that was the case, it would mean they ought to be together, no matter what…didn't it?...

Perhaps Mr. Todd was so busted up inside from everything that had happened to him over the years – and Toby only knew a very small part of that – that he didn't understand how to _not_ hurt someone he cared about.

Exasperated from these mental gymnastics, Toby flung the dough onto the board, more confused than ever. He glanced over his shoulder at his mum – she was still gazing out that window, and he didn't know how many times she'd refilled that whiskey glass while he'd been out front minding the customers. He sighed and left his task to start a pot of tea. She shouldn't be drinking so much.

He wondered if Todd had ever told her about burning the photographs. He wondered if he should tell her himself; and then he decided not to. That felt like something for Mr. Todd to say, if he chose to. On top of that, what difference would such information make at this point? The damage was already done. And besides, Todd's getting rid of the pictures obviously hadn't made a bit of difference in his mind. It had only been an outward gesture, nothing more.

But that scene kept coming back unbidden to Toby's mind, over and over again: Mr. Todd fighting Mrs. Lovett as she struggled to support him, commanding her to leave him at the mercy of that bloodthirsty crowd: _"__If I fall, just take Toby and get yourselves out…__let me go, I'm slowing you down…Leave me…"_ _"I am not leaving you. I'll die with you, Sweeney Todd..."_

Well. For his mum's sake if nothing else, Toby decided he wouldn't kill the man.

Not yet, anyway.

* * *

The first day after her husband's departure had been all right. The night she cast him from the house, she'd been near senseless from the whole ordeal, the sheer shock of hearing him call her that name. But the next morning, thinking about the situation, she felt more than justified in her actions, and a kind of reflexive righteous indignation over her husband's heartless, thoughtless words sustained her. _I've had enough of him,_ she thought that first day. _It's high time I learned to live without him, the beast; doesn't love me. I've got my son. Toby loves me._ She'd even seen her now-estranged husband at work that day – he'd gone over to Holmes to get something or other for his practice, and the blighter stood across the street for the better part of half an hour staring through her window. She never let on that she knew he was there; although she did consider, with a mischievous little smirk to herself, that she might send for the police and have him arrested for loitering. That would teach him to hang about like a lost hound. When she retired to her bed that night, she enjoyed a sound, untroubled sleep.

But the next morning, as she was dressing, she couldn't find a particular brooch she wanted to wear, and unthinkingly called out "Sweeney, love, have you seen my – " And then it hit her. Everything came flooding back, and it hurt just as much as when it had actually happened – only now it was ten times worse, because added to it all was the fact that she suddenly missed him – achingly, terribly. She went about her work that day in a frenzy, never stopping even for a moment, desperately trying to push his image from her mind. It didn't work: particularly because he appeared across the street again, and she felt his eyes following her every movement until she could stand it no longer and fled to the kitchen. At home that night, she found that she couldn't get into her bed knowing he wouldn't be there beside her. So she tried the sofa; but it only tormented her with memories of the night he'd given her the sapphire ring, when they'd sat there together and he'd told her he adored her and worshiped her and then proceeded to prove it.

And today, three days after she'd returned her rings, essentially telling him their brief marriage was over, she'd barely been holding herself together all morning, until she saw his dark form across the street. She'd scarcely made it to the kitchen before completely breaking down, leaving Toby in charge of the shop. Once she'd collected herself with the aid of a sizable glass (or three) of whiskey – of which Toby had since relieved her, pointedly replacing the liquor with a cup of tea (_my sweet little hypocrite_) – she'd returned to the front counter and proceeded to tend to business as best she could while the flood of memories continued plaguing her mind.

She'd lived alone before; she'd been lonely for years on end. She'd lived without love all her life, it seemed. Oh, her Albert had loved her, and she'd loved him, in the same way she might love a jolly, doting relative; but she'd never quite been able to reciprocate his feelings to an equal degree. She'd lived without Benjamin Barker for a decade and a half; and there was a time before she'd been introduced to Sweeney Todd. But this – this was worse, so much worse, because she'd learned what it was to hold everything she wanted in the palm of her hand, and now she was watching it all fall away.

She'd been certain Todd loved her. But now she had to ask herself whether, when he looked at her, it was her face he was really seeing. Was he always gazing into blue eyes, running his fingers through yellow hair, in his mind?...Was that why there was such love in his eyes when he looked at her? Was she really seeing his love for his first wife, channeled into the only vessel available?

Of course that was it. Why else would he call her Lucy? His overarching mission in life, since returning from prison, had been to avenge what he'd lost; and now Nellie had to wonder if, when his vengeance was achieved, he'd set about restoring his old life with any proxies he could find. For that, he needed a wife, and Nellie had been more than willing. He'd superimposed her onto his memory of, and lasting desire for, Lucy. Was _that_ why he thought he loved his accomplice – the substitution she provided for the wife he really wanted and could never regain? That was the only explanation that made sense.

She could bear much – _had_ borne much, more than anyone should, for him – and she'd always thought she could bear a great deal more. Thought she could live with anything, in fact, accept anything, if only he could be hers in even some small measure. But now she was finding, to her own astonishment, that there were, indeed, limits to her tolerance. She loved him so much she was in physical agony apart from his presence; but she couldn't – wouldn't – live as his wife if it wasn't really her he was married to.

_Should've known better,_ she thought, _should've known _him _better._ And she cursed the unquenchable optimism that had caused her to think he could ever love her for herself alone.

As she attempted to distract herself by chatting with two of her favorite customers – elderly twin sisters, one widowed, the other a spinster, who frequented the shop every couple of days – while waiting for Toby to get their order together, she caught herself glancing too frequently to the picture window onto 63rd Street, offering its view of H.H. Holmes' drug store across the way, half-fearing and half-hoping that Sweeney's familiar silhouette would again come into view, barely registering what the women were saying until she heard this:

"That young – wife? mistress? – of his, what was her name? Judy? June?..."

"Julia."

The widow, Penelope, snapped her fingers. "Julia! That's it. Why, I haven't seen her about the place in a – "

"Dog's age," spinster Emmeline finished for her.

Penelope nodded, and both women looked at Nellie. "I've seen that little girl of hers, Pearl, come in here sometimes with her mother, haven't I, Mrs. Marlowe?"

Nellie blinked. "Hmm? Oh – Mr. Holmes' family…yes, she did…"

And such a sweet child, too – only about seven years old, a happy little thing with chestnut hair and a big smile…Nellie used to give her free treats. She realized, as she stood gazing past her customers towards Holmes' store, that she hadn't seen mother or child in some time, either…

"She probably packed up that little girl and left him," Emmeline said wisely. "You know I've always said that man is _too_ eccentric."

Penelope's brow furrowed in thought. "Wasn't there something a few years back, about a woman he'd married who ended up moving back east to her mother after only a few months?"

"Left no forwarding address," Emmeline answered, nodding sagely.

Just then Toby appeared, handing them a box as Nellie took their money, then vanishing into the kitchen once more to return to the rest of his work.

But the gossips' conversation had set other thoughts tugging at Nellie's mind, and she welcomed and indulged them as a respite from her current state of distress over what had happened with Sweeney.

What _had_ happened to these two women who'd lived with Holmes, and to the little girl? And this hotel of his, right above Nellie's head…How many guests had come in? She hadn't really paid attention before now. Had there been _any_? It was an awfully quiet building, in every sense of the word: little activity about the place, and devoid of the noisy bustle one might expect of a hotel. Nellie did recall that some young ladies had arrived for employment interviews. But now that she thought about it, she realized she'd never seen these women again. Either Holmes was inordinately choosy about who he hired and had sent them all away, or they all had living quarters in the hotel, or Nellie was simply oblivious to their comings and goings. Perhaps there was a staff entrance round back that they always used…

Perhaps it was all nothing. Perhaps she only suspected the worst because she'd been there herself.

Or perhaps that very trait, her own experience in the darker pursuits of her past, had attuned her to recognize the same thing in others…

"Mum," Toby's voice roused her – she turned and saw him standing in the kitchen door. "Tarts are done, did you want me to start on the almond cakes?"

"Yes, dear," she answered, "and then I think we can call it a day."

"Yes, ma'am."

Her son vanished once more into the recesses of the kitchen, and Nellie followed to acquire another cup of the tea he'd made. She didn't really want the stuff, but it warded off the early spring chill and she knew it made Toby happy to see her drinking it, made him think he was helping.

He was her reason for getting out of bed in the morning, these past few days. She was all he had – and now, he was all she had. And just at the moment, she was deeply worried about him. They hadn't spoken about what had happened with Sweeney, though there seemed to be an unspoken, mutual understanding of its significance between them. She supposed he might be giving her time, allowing her to determine when she was ready to deal with the situation. But she could feel his rage coming off him like a vapor, and she could sense his mind churning over it; and at times when he was uncharacteristically quiet, staring off into space seeing only God knew what, she feared what might be going through his head. Especially since they hadn't really talked about Fall River either, about Toby blowing the face off a man who'd tried to forcibly prevent their escape. There had never seemed to be a right time to bring the matter up. But something had to be done; she was growing concerned about what effect it might be having on him, seeing her this way. Besides, she was the one supposed to console him in his difficulties; not the other way round…

She would talk to him tonight, she determined; and just as she had this thought the shop bell rang. Technically she was closed at this point; but not wanting to lose a sale (and not overly keen on going home just yet), she took up her cup and saucer and headed to the front counter, looking down into her tea as she entered and saying pleasantly, "Good afternoon, dearie, what can I do for y – "

Then she raised her eyes, and abject terror gripped her very being.

Her heart seemed to plummet to the pit of her stomach – her blood turned to ice – the only breath she could draw was the sharp gasp she couldn't stifle; the cup and saucer slipped from her hand, shattering on the floor, and she clutched at the edge of the counter to hold herself up, because her legs seemed to have completely given out on her.

Lucy Barker's ghost had just walked through the door.

"Have mercy…" Nellie breathed, quaking with fear as she regarded this…specter?...No…it wasn't Lucy…this was a younger, smaller, brighter version of that wrecked and wasted shell…Lucy as a mere girl, perhaps, before she'd ever married Barker…this young woman was identical: the clear blue eyes, the charmingly pallid, sculpted features, the token golden hair…but there was something not-Lucy too…about the mouth and chin…

Those were Sweeney Todd's.

This was Johanna.

"I'm…so sorry to have startled you, ma'am," Sweeney's daughter said.

Nellie never knew how, in that moment, she was able to smile and say, "Forgive me, dear…you look so like someone I knew a long time ago…"

And who should appear just then but H.H. Holmes, sidling out from behind Johanna, it seemed. Nellie surmised he had to have been there the entire time, only she hadn't seen him in her…preoccupation…

"Ah!" Holmes cried, "Mrs. Marlowe! _So_ glad you're in. May I introduce the newest employee of my grand hotel, Johanna Hope."

Nellie's smile never faded as she stretched out her right hand and said, "How d'you do, my dear?"

Johanna's eyes widened as she rushed to Nellie and seized her hand in both of her own. "Marlowe?" she repeated. "You're not related to the surgeon by any chance? Dr. Vincent Marlowe?"

Grinning, Holmes jumped in: "You're speaking with the esteemed surgeon's wife."

Johanna smiled, radiant.

Oh God. It couldn't get any worse. No, Nellie was certain it couldn't. She only nodded and kept smiling, holding the hand of her beloved's child in her own, and was treated to Johanna's effusive praise of "Dr. Marlowe's" medical skills in his care of her husband Anthony…

Entirely overwhelmed, Nellie barely heard Holmes say "Now Johanna, since you'll be working in the hotel I suppose I'd better show you around, eh?" as he led the girl out and towards the hotel entrance.

Nellie wasn't sure how long she stood motionless before finally gathering enough wits about her to make her way to one of the shop tables, holding on to every surface she could find as if she were dead drunk, and collapse into one of the chairs, where she sat staring at the door Johanna had just passed through.

Sweeney had a beautiful child.

Only she wasn't just his, was she?..

But she _was_ a part of him…and Nellie remembered when she'd been born, how happy then-Benjamin had been…she remembered him beaming and saying _"Would you like to hold her, Mrs. Lovett?"_ and answering yes, of course she would; and him placing the baby in her arms, and daring to imagine, for just that moment…

She remembered hearing that baby's mournful wailing after Benjamin had been deported, as if the child knew what had happened, knew she'd never see her father again. She remembered being awakened to hungry cries one morning, going up to investigate when they didn't stop for a good long while and finding Lucy out of her senses. Remembered doing everything she could for the child until the authorities took her to Turpin.

Yes…_then_. Then, Nellie had only seen Johanna as a way of remembering Benjamin, of honoring him. _Now,_ she only saw her as an anchor to Sweeney's past.

Nellie felt a creeping sensation along her spine: she didn't like Holmes, was starting to think he had some secrets of a fairly contemptible nature. And now, Johanna was in his influence. And as she sat there in the gathering dusk, Nellie debated within herself whether she should tell Sweeney about all this.

* * *

**A/N:** As always, let me know how this chapter works (or doesn't) :)


	7. Darkness

**Disclaimers:** See Prologue.

**A/N:** This was a very difficult chapter (and I still don't think it's right), hence the somewhat longer than usual wait. Ah well. **Please review** and let me know what you think of it...

* * *

**6**

**Darkness.**

"It _was_ housekeeping you said you were interested in, is that right, my dear?"

"Um…yes, sir."

The darkness was rather astonishing, the last thing Johanna would have expected. It had been somewhat understandable in the stairwell; but she expected brightly-lit corridors once they reached the second floor. Here, too, at the top of the stairs, she stepped into a murk that was only barely alleviated by the low flicker of gas jets placed intermittently along the red-damask walls. Why so dark?...Why no windows?...Only there _did_ seem to be window-shaped recesses, great squares in the walls, that were filled with sheet metal. Why would he block off the windows?...

He was leading her briskly through a very odd progression of unfurnished rooms, all different sizes, all leading into each other in a straight line. Johanna saw closed doors to her right and more obscured windows to her left; and she abruptly realized how very quiet the place was. Not even her or Holmes' footsteps on the thin runners made much sound.

"I designed these rooms myself," Holmes said suddenly, not turning to look at her, his voice harsh and hollow in the almost-tangible silence. "Don't you think it's clever, little Johanna?"

A chill sliced through her at his casual familiarity; but she let it pass, telling herself she must merely be nervous, embarking as she was on such a new venture and being alone with a man she'd only known for five minutes.

Finally, when it seemed they had traversed the length of the building, Holmes turned to the right. He was walking so fast, his step so light and practically springing, that Johanna had trouble keeping up with him; she actually lost sight of him as he rounded the shadowy corner. "Mr. Holmes?" she called out, afraid she might get lost in this strange, massive building. Quickening her step as much as she could with her ankles hampered by skirts, she approached the turn Holmes had taken, the rooms dissolving into deeper darkness as the space between gas jets grew greater and the light finally disappeared altogether, leaving Johanna to screw up her eyes, peering into pitch black, one hand resting on the wall at her left, ready to guide her into the gloom beyond. She called for her employer again, and was answered only with unnatural silence.

Something within Johanna told her, by means of a most emphatic chill that raised the hair on her arms and the back of her neck, that nothing about this situation was right. Venturing further into the lightless void before her was certainly not an option; and as her employer had not responded to her summons, it was obvious he would not be found even if she tried. Her only recourse was to retreat back the way she'd come. She imagined she could find the main stair without much difficulty, as the rooms she'd traversed were ranged in a straight line with no turns. She would wait for Holmes there, she decided.

Or perhaps not. It was he, after all, who'd led her here and abandoned her in a dark and unfamiliar place. Surely, then, he had orchestrated this situation for some reason…

Johanna didn't want to think about what that reason was. She backed up two steps –afraid to turn her back on that darkness – then finally, slowly, turned. There, in front of her, was the last room she'd come through, and the welcome glow of gaslight further along. She hurried towards it –

– and a loud yelp of shock escaped her as the light instantly vanished to the sound of a heavy door slamming shut.

Standing dead-still, robbed of breath, she was engulfed by that terrible stygian dark and uncanny stillness; it wrapped around her like a living thing. The only sound was the wild throbbing of her heart, the mad rush of blood in her ears – until –

"My pretty."

Air rushed back into her in a gasp of terror. Holmes – he was here, in the room, right beside her, his voice right by her ear; and she couldn't see him…Instinctively, her hand struck out at him – and met only empty air.

He laughed then, as if he could somehow see her movements. "Don't be afraid," he went on. "You're a very special young lady. I've taken you to be one of my…special guests."

Johanna was still lashing out with her open hands in all directions, though too terrified to actually move anywhere. She didn't know where Holmes was – didn't know what she might find if she dared advance deeper into that space.

"I have a lovely treat for you, my dear." His voice was coming from a different location now – it had been at her side; now she was sure it was in front of her, and she hastily backed up, only to run up against the door that had cut off her escape. Frantically she groped along its surface, but could not find a knob or lever of any kind that might open it even from the outside.

Now true panic set in – her breath coming erratic and ragged, in whimpers; her hands shaking, her legs like rubber. She was certain she'd faint.

"Dr. Holmes," she cried, hoarse, hysterical, "why are you doing this?!"

"Oh my sweet," his voice came now from behind her; "if only you'll give me a chance I'm sure you'll have a marvelous time. Now listen, darling, while I tell you what I have in store for you today."

But she only heard parts of what he said, because now she was outright sobbing, completely beside herself; and Holmes was punctuating his speech with "shh" and "hush now"…

At last, her frenzy did subside – chiefly from exhaustion; but there was something else – some unknown, untapped reserve of strength that welled up in her suddenly, surprisingly, seemingly from nowhere. Unbidden images rushed in on her mind's eye: Turpin, and Bamford…she'd survived them…Fogg's, she'd survived that…the barber, Todd, she'd survived him. She'd been surviving the regular nightmares they'd all implanted in her mind.

These memories made her think of Anthony – he'd be waiting for her visit tomorrow. And at _that_ thought, she made up her mind to survive this too.

In that moment her panic gave way to an anger that determined her to get away from Holmes; and she set her mind to tease out the best course of action towards that end.

She considered calling out that her husband would be looking for her when she didn't arrive home – and silently berated herself: she realized she hadn't mentioned Anthony when she'd met Holmes, and that innocent omission had likely been her downfall. No matter – it was the now that needed to be dealt with.

But she stopped herself just on the point of carrying out this plan. It would be highly unlikely for Holmes to let her go after such an admission, risking her giving him away to the first person she saw after her release. No, nothing she said would save her. She would have to find a way out on her own. There had to be one. She refused to believe otherwise – she had to.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, she called out – still fearful that her slightest action might cause the darkness to stir, or touch her like a living thing – "Dr. Holmes?"

A pause – then "Are you _quite_ finished pitching your tantrum, my dear?" he answered sternly.

"Yes," she replied meekly. "I'm sorry. What is it you wished to tell me? I'm ready."

She heard the smile in his voice as he said, his voice seeming to stay in one spot now, "Excellent. Oh, we'll have such fun together. Now listen very carefully, Johanna…Do you remember what fun you had as a wee little girl, romping about through the hedge mazes in the park?"

She had no idea what he was talking about; but she wisely said "Oh yes."

Holmes laughed, clearly delighted. "Well my dear – I have one. Not made of shrubbery, of course; but a maze. I designed it. It's delightful, wait till you see…"

A harsh metallic _clang_ – a grinding of metal on metal – a glimmer of sickly yellow light at Johanna's right side. A door had opened, and she eagerly scrambled to her feet and made towards it.

"Find your way through, my sweet," said Holmes; "and when you get to the end, I'll have many more surprises waiting…"

Johanna had never felt such dread as came over her at the prospect of groping her way through Holmes' "maze"; but she knew it was necessary. If she refused, he might kill her; or at the very least devise some other "entertainment" far more hideous. For the moment, she thought her best option was to play his game.

And so, trying to prepare for any unknown horror awaiting her, she steeled herself and stepped inside.

* * *

About five minutes after Holmes had led Johanna from the bakery, Nellie was roused from her thoughts by Toby gently shaking her shoulder and saying "Mum. You all right?"

She blinked up at him, having no idea how much time had passed since Johanna had left.

_Johanna._ It didn't seem real, somehow…

"I heard somethin' break," Toby was saying, "and I figured you'd just dropped somethin'; but when I realized you hadn't come back…" He finished with a shrug.

"I did drop somethin', dear," said Nellie, suddenly remembering the shattered china, and attempting to sound cheerful in the midst of her ongoing distraction. "Dropped that teacup and saucer behind the counter."

"I'll take care of it," Toby offered.

"Thank you love; and then would you go and take the sign in? That's my good boy."

_Boy_ was quickly becoming a joke where Toby was concerned. He was thirteen now and shooting up like a bean pole, nearly taller than Nellie (though, she mused, that wouldn't take much…). She watched him as he tidied up the teacup shards and mopped the spilled tea, smiling as she remembered the very first day he'd come to her, a little, dirty, hungry scamp – starving, more like, by the way he'd devoured that ghastly pie she'd offered him as if it were ambrosia…and then he'd whipped off that ridiculous wig and ruffled his hair. That was the moment she'd fallen in love with him, wished to God she'd had a son like him; and when Todd had done away with Pirelli, she instantly saw her hopeless dream begin to take shape. That very night she'd properly bound up Toby's knuckles, torn to ribbons by the habitual nicks of his former master's razor; and now, watching him bring in the shop sign, her eyes automatically drifted to his right hand and the white scars that still laced the backs of his fingers. She thought of how devastated she'd been when he'd discovered her secret, terrified that he might insist on going to the law; how happy she'd been when he'd followed her and Sweeney to New York and told her he'd thrown his lot in with them, no matter what. And now here they were, nearly three years later, and he was shaping up into such a fine young man. She couldn't possibly have been prouder of him if he'd been her own flesh and blood.

"_My own flesh and blood! You don't know what that's like!"_

She sighed. Harsh words, spoken thoughtlessly in anger; but no less true for all that. But she did have Toby, and she couldn't love him more.

She looked away from him and sighed. The way she felt about Toby…it wouldn't be right to ask Sweeney to give up his daughter for her sake. He was entitled to make his own child a part of his life, if he chose. If such a thing was even possible. None of which meant that Nellie could be there to see it. But she _could_ do for him what every father would want done – she could go to him and tell him that Johanna was here, in Holmes' employ.

"Toby," she called, her voice thick.

The lad bustled out of the kitchen. "Almond cakes are nearly done – "

"Sit down," she gently interrupted him, nodding towards a chair; and he did so.

She hesitated for a long while, debating just how to tell him this. She wasn't sure how he'd take the mere mention of Sweeney's name at this point. But it had to be done.

"I'm gonna go and have a chat with Mr. Todd."

Toby's eyes narrowed, and Nellie thought his breathing slowed down considerably. "'Bout what?" he said, his voice deadly low.

She considered making something up, something simple, something that wouldn't be likely to put the lad into a rage. But just as she opened her mouth to do this, a tug at the back of her mind warned her of the unpleasantness that ensued the last time she'd taken such a course of action. She'd nearly ended up dead. Figuring honesty was best – she certainly didn't want Toby finding out any other way – she told him about Johanna's visit that afternoon.

He was nodding slowly as she finished. "That's why you dropped that teacup."

She nodded.

"So you're gonna go tell Mr. Todd his daughter's here."

"Yeah."

"Let me do it."

Something about the tone of his voice chilled her blood: it was almost deceptive, as though he was trying to mask a sinister intention with a casual veneer. She'd never heard this in him before.

"Why would you want to do that?"

Toby merely shrugged and cast his gaze to the table.

Nellie shook her head. "No."

"Why not?"

"Because he's my husband, Toby. Anyone's gonna tell him somethin' like this, it should be me."

Toby scoffed – a bitterly sarcastic sound that, coming from him, made Nellie's skin crawl. "I think he give up all rights to _that_ title when he done what he did the other night, Mum."

She sighed heavily, suddenly weary. She couldn't argue with the lad, really; but his astute observation was beside the point. "Well…I don't think it's a good idea for you to be around Mr. Todd right now, love."

"Oh, but it's a good idea for _you_?" Toby asked with a good-natured smirk.

She regarded him shrewdly. He certainly was growing up. It was becoming increasingly obvious by the day that she could no longer deal with him as if he were still a child. So she fixed him with a businesslike look and said "You never answered my question."

"Which was?..."

"Why would you even _want_ to go and see Mr. Todd?"

Toby sighed, defeated; and she waited patiently for his reply. "So's I can give him a piece of my mind, all right? I think I'm entitled."

Nellie smiled softly. "That may be, love. And some day you just might get your chance; but not now. It's too soon."

She _didn't_ tell him that the dark, brooding look in his eyes, visible pretty much all the time now, was her major reason for not simply writing Todd a note and having Toby deliver it.

* * *

That very night, Nellie found herself standing on the stoop outside Sweeney's "shop", waiting for her knock to be answered. No light shone through the chinks in the closed shutters, and she'd already knocked twice; but she knew he was there.

Finally, just as she was on the point of leaving, feeling something between disappointment and relief, she heard his familiar tread beyond the door; and that sound alone was enough to set her heart pounding, awaken the old plummeting feeling in the pit of her stomach. She fiddled with her gloves, keeping her eyes down, wishing she could steady her trembling fingers.

A metallic click – a quiet _scree_ of hinges – and the door opened.

Her breath caught, her head snapped up – and despite promising herself she wouldn't meet his eyes, she found herself locking on to them, and saw that she'd startled him: his own eyes were wide, his jaw slightly slack.

"Can – "

But her voice was hoarse, and she had to break off to clear her throat before continuing: "Can I come in?"

He blinked and his head shook slightly, as if just coming out of a trance, and wordlessly stepped back to allow her to enter, closing the door behind her.

She crossed to the far side of the waiting area and faced the wall as she spoke to him. _Just say what you have to and leave. Just get this over with._

"I'll get right to it," she said. "I've seen Johanna. She come by the shop just today."

A pause, then "I've seen her too."

These were the first words he'd spoken since opening the door; and the sound of his voice, too long absent, drained the strength from her limbs. She casually placed a hand on the back of a nearby chair for support.

"She was here thankin' me for takin' care of Anthony," Sweeney explained.

"What – she saw you? What happened, did she recognize – "

"I didn't let her see me. Stayed in my office, talked to her through the door."

Nellie felt a pang for him – finding it necessary to hide from his own child. "The reason I'm here," she said gently, "I thought you might want to know she's workin' for that Holmes bloke now."

"Working?"

"Yeah, in his hotel."

"Doin' what?"

Nellie shook her head. "I'm not sure…Sweeney – "

Then, without realizing, without meaning to, she turned to him; but his back was to her, and she dropped her gaze again and spoke to the floor. "I don't trust that man. The woman he lived with, and her little girl, they've gone missin'. Moved out west, he says; but…And the girls what come to work for him, I never see 'em after they're hired."

He said nothing, only let out a long breath through his nose.

"I'm sorry to tell you this…it's probably nothin'…"

"No," he barked, shattering the hushed atmosphere their quiet voices had created – then went on, in a calmer tone, "you've done right to tell me." Then, still without looking at her, he muttered, "Thank you."

Silence reigned for a time – Nellie knowing she should leave now that her purpose was accomplished, but somehow unwilling or unable to, and Sweeney not asking her to – until finally, to keep herself from saying something she hadn't intended, she lamely asked "Have you been well, since I saw you last?"

"No, Nellie," he growled. "I haven't _been well_." Then he turned and faced her, smirking, his jetty eyes glittering. "Have you?"

_You bloody well know I haven't, damn you; I ache for you, I weep for you, I'm dying inside, come home, come home –_

She avoided his question by saying nothing; and he seized on her silence to continue, a vicious undercurrent running beneath his subdued voice: "What do you want, Nell?"

"I told you," she answered, looking everywhere but towards his eyes, "I wanted you to know about Johanna."

"You know that's not what I mean."

She did know. He was asking what she wanted to do about _him_, about _them_. Just at the moment what she wanted was to run to him; but of course she held her ground and said "Don't, Sweeney…that's not what I came here for, don't do this now – "

"When, then?" he rumbled, and now he was slowly moving towards her, his shoes dull on the wood of the floor. "Damn it, you're my _wife_."

And then she raised her eyes to him, defiant, unyielding, and whispered "Am I?"

For a moment he stopped, fixed and rigid, seeming not even to breathe, as if her words had turned him to stone –

Then he obliterated the distance between them with such force and speed that Nellie started and nearly cringed; and before she could register what was happening his hands were gripping her shoulders bruisingly, fury warping his features as his eyes bored into her, and she couldn't look away – even this closeness, his hands on her, even in this way, quickening her breath; her own hands threatening to reach out and grab hold of his jacket for the sheer sensation of touching him. He was breathing hard, seething, his teeth bared, forehead creased; below the mask of rage, fathomless pain was churning, and Nellie's heart nearly broke over it.

"What the bloody hell is it going to take?" he snarled, shaking her as though trying to wake her up or get her sober. "Don't you know what you've done to me…I couldn't bring myself to kill you, I stayed with you because I couldn't imagine living without you, I married you, I accepted that boy of yours, I burned the goddamned bleedin' photographs – "

A sudden coldness washed over her, and she could barely draw breath to mutter "What – what – "

"The blasted photographs, damn it…"

But she only stared at him, uncomprehending – not daring to indulge the meaning she hoped his words held; and his face softened, gave way to something like confusion. "You didn't know..."

She swallowed. "I…"

"Toby never told you?"

Still breathless, she could only shake her head and silently mouth the words _"Told me what?..."_

Todd straightened, loosened his hold on her – blinked and jerked his head, like he had when he'd opened the door for her; and when he spoke his voice was quiet. "The pictures I had, of Lucy and Johanna…I saved 'em from Fleet Street…used to look at 'em while you were sleepin', back in Fall River…"

_Of course…_

"And then one night I burned 'em to nothin', and then I went to you and I told you it was just me and you now."

The memory of that night was seared into her mind; but she'd never known what he'd done just before he'd uttered those words to her, and she began to feel on the verge of breaking down. All he had left of his family, and he'd destroyed it, for her…It was surreal somehow; she couldn't quite bring her mind to accept what she was hearing. Never, _never_ would she have expected that of him –

"Yes," he hissed into the silence, "Johanna's mother was Lucy; and yes, when I think of my daughter I remember her too; and yes, I _did_ love her; but god_damn_ it, Nellie, I meant what I said – not like this." His voice softened. "Not like you. I've already told you that every bleedin' way I know how and none of it's good enough for you."

_Oh, God…_how well she remembered him speaking those words when he'd asked her to be his wife – words she could never have imagined him saying even in her wildest fantasies…She needed this to stop, these memories he was causing to well up in her; because the feelings they stirred still didn't answer the anguish he'd caused her.

"Tell me why, then," she whispered. "If all that's true, why would you ever – "

"I don't know," he cut her off quickly, "but I do know it weren't what you're thinkin'. What do I have to do to convince you?"

She had a feeling this wasn't a rhetorical question – the quiet intensity in his voice told her he really meant it. Whatever she told him in this moment, he would move heaven and earth to see it done.

She hesitated, wanting him back – desperately – but afraid, knowing beyond a doubt that if she let him in even a little, he would cut her heart to the quick again; and she wasn't ready for that. Didn't know if she ever would be.

"When you said that to me…it hurt more than anything else you've ever done. Includin' tryin' to end my life. That, at least, I understood." And the memory of that night brought a horrible prospect to her mind for the first time, one that chilled and sickened her; and she asked him, "Are you punishing me?"

"Wh – I don't understand…punishing you?"

"For lyin' to you. Did you…did you stay with me all this time, did you marry me, so you could deceive me like I deceived you?"

For a moment he didn't react at all – then he let out a harsh gasp, awful to hear, as if he'd been submerged in frigid water. "How can you…even _think_…"

She lowered her eyes again, because he was looking at her with a lost expression, so like the one he'd worn when she'd first told him what had befallen Lucy in his absence, the look of a crushed man. So utterly devastated did he appear that she wanted to apologize; but she decided instead to end this encounter altogether. It had been a mistake to come here; she should have sent a note…

"I only know I can't risk my heart bein' done in by you again, Sweeney," she told him. "I'm not sure I could take it."

With an exasperated sigh, he turned, running a hand through his raven hair, moving away from her; and she felt instinctively that this was the time to leave.

He was standing between her and the door, and she slowed her steps imperceptibly as she passed him, half-hoping he would reach out and grab her wrist, telling her to stay, telling her he was sorry, telling her he was suffering just as much as she was.

But he didn't.

Her progress to the door regretfully unimpeded, she turned the knob – hesitated just slightly, still hoping he'd stop her – then opened the door and stepped to the threshold –

"Eleanor."

She spun round, her eyes searching for his but finding only his profile turned to her, his gaze directed to the top of the cabinet against the wall. He only ever spoke her full name during their times of intimacy; she was shocked to hear it now, in this situation, each of them standing at opposite ends of the room and her about to leave, continuing their separation. He stood in silence for a moment, his mouth open to speak –

If he'd asked her to let him come home in that moment, she would have taken him by the arm and led him there.

Then his jaw shifted and he swallowed, letting whatever he'd meant to say dissolve like smoke.

"Look after her for me, will you?" he muttered instead.

She nodded sincerely – she would, because he asked. Then, without a word, unable to bear his presence any longer, she stepped out, shutting the door with a quiet _click_.

But she remained on the stoop for a moment, keeping her hand on the knob, knowing he couldn't hear her, and breathed "I miss you."

And she never knew that, on the other side of the door, Sweeney Todd was standing, staring at the knob. Slowly, he reached out…lightly, reverently rested three fingers where her hand had just been, and whispered "I love you."

* * *


	8. Games

**Disclaimers:** See Prologue.

**A/N:** Just in time for Halloween!

**ETERNAL AND GINORMOUS THANKS** to my reviewers and subscribers! I can't say this enough. I am so honored that you consider my stories worth your time to read and comment on.

I know a lot of you are disgruntled that our barber and baker have not yet reconciled. All I can say is, I know what I'm doing ;)

Fair warning, I think this is my longest chapter yet; but not without cause, I hope...

* * *

**7**

**Games.**

Nellie made good on her promise to Sweeney the very morning after their encounter. Leaving Toby to busy himself with the early preparations in the kitchen, she peered out the large front window onto 63rd Street, trying to ascertain whether Holmes was in his shop. If not, he could only be in the hotel, and she wouldn't risk being discovered poking about. He was nowhere in sight at first; but her patience paid off when, after she'd been gazing across the street for at least three minutes, he appeared from his storeroom and set about getting the place in order for the day. Good, then…

"Toby," she called as she made her way through the kitchen to the back door.

"Yes, mum?"

"I'm steppin' out for a tick."

"All right."

She'd never paid much mind to the building above her head when she came to work every day. Now, standing at its back and staring up with narrowed eyes, studying its darkly imposing façade, the distinct feeling grew in her that something wasn't right. She couldn't quite define what it was – it simply took the form of a nagging buzz at the back of her mind; but she instinctively knew that the building itself was wrong somehow, its architecture or its decorative touches…One thing was obvious: there was no back door for the employees to slip in and out of, as she'd previously thought there must be. Which resurrected her question of where the newly hired staff all disappeared to after Holmes took them up to the second floor…But there was something else, too, that was off somehow…_something_...

A hand came down on her shoulder – her shriek of alarm pierced the early morning quiet as her hand flew to her heart and she spun to face her assailant –

"Mum?"

She managed to gasp "For the love o' _God_, Toby" through her racing breath. "You nearly…Don't _ever_ do that again…"

"Sorry," he said, swallowing, an awkward, apologetic look on his face. "It's just, you've been out here at least ten minutes, and we'll need to open soon. I've got the cakes – "

She grasped his arm, an idea suddenly taking shape. "Never mind about the cakes for right now, love. I need you to do somethin' for me."

"Uh…all right…"

She pulled him beside her and turned him to face the hotel. "D'you see anything strange?" she asked, gesturing to the building with an outstretched palm.

Toby squinted. "What am I lookin' for?"

"That's what I'd like to know. Notice anything at all…_unusual_ about the place?..."

He examined the façade as if trying to memorize each stone. At last, after what felt like several minutes, he said, "Why are the windows all curtained?"

Realization dawned in Nellie's mind. _Of course_…without exception, every single window was covered by curtains inside...

"And it looks like they're pulled tight against the frame," Toby went on, pointing to a particular second-floor window on a corner. "See there? See how it doesn't look like it's hangin' right? Looks like it's been fastened to the frame somehow."

Without a word, Nellie rapidly walked around the side of the building, keeping her gaze upturned the whole time. It was the same here; in fact there was a dearth of windows at all on this side…and moving around again, to the opposite wall, where the hotel's main entrance was located – sure enough, the windows were tightly obscured, the curtains snug to the frames.

What…was the man running a brothel up there?...

"Good boy," Nellie said absently when Toby appeared by her side, clearly awaiting an explanation. But her mind was elsewhere. If Sweeney's daughter had unwittingly gotten herself involved with a…house of ill repute – indeed, been abducted into its service…Never mind Sweeney's reaction, Nellie herself set her teeth in rage over the prospect. _Sick bastard, takin' an innocent girl like that…_"Right," she huffed in Toby's direction; "you open up and mind things for a bit." And she started to stalk off.

"Where you goin'?" said Toby, hard on her heels.

"I think it's past time me and Dr. Holmes had a bit of a chat," she replied, continuing on her way without looking back at him.

"Oh no you don't, not on your own. I've seen the way he looks at you, like a bleedin' cat about to swallow a mouse."

She turned then, and met Toby's eyes, hard and defiant, and knew he wasn't going to take no for an answer. Nellie was touched by his concern, and sighed. How could she refuse such devotion?..."Come on, then," she said resignedly, taking his hand and marching off once more in the direction of 63rd Street.

"Mum," said Toby after a few seconds.

"Mmm?"

"You know I love you and all, but you don't have to hold my hand."

"That's nice, dear…"

"Mum!"

"What?"

"Let go," he chuckled.

"Oh, right, sorry," she said, dropping his hand and suddenly feeling much less confident somehow.

Holmes' shop bell merrily announced their arrival. At first, Nellie didn't see the druggist, and her heart sank to think that perhaps he'd spied them out after all and was at that moment on his way in search of them…But as the bell's resonance subsided, he emerged from the back room; and when he laid eyes on Nellie he stopped short as if he'd run into a wall. Recovering quickly, he dramatically shaded his eyes with one hand, holding the other before him as if to ward off her presence. "Soft!" he cried, "What is this radiance of beauty that surpasses even the sun, gracing my humble estab – "

"Good mornin' Mr. Holmes," Nellie greeted him brightly, while Toby began unobtrusively poking around the merchandise. She didn't have to see her son's eyes to know he was keeping one of them surreptitiously fixed on her. "I hope you're well this fine day."

Holmes eyed her with a wolfish grin. "My dear lady," he said smoothly, "it certainly is a fine day now you're here."

Nellie suspected he was trying to be suave and nearly laughed aloud at his pathetic, cliché attempt, wondering how many women actually gave in to such drivel; but she deftly masked her amusement by returning Holmes' smile. From the corner of her eye she saw Toby cast a malicious glance in the druggist's direction, but he looked away again just as quickly.

"Why, aren't you a flatterer," Nellie remarked with a wink. "You know I'm a married woman, Mr. Holmes."

He nodded slowly. "And your husband is the most fortunate of all men, my lady. Alas, were it not for that circumstance…" His grin widened and he spread his hands with a shrug. "But now, tell me how I may serve you, my good madam."

"Well now, I think I'd like to see what you've got in the way of hatpins."

"Ah!" Holmes noised, crooking a finger and beckoning her to the jewelry counter. "I have some lovely things that would _just suit_ you, my dear…"

After locating the pins and telling Nellie not to hesitate to ask his assistance, he excused himself and left her alone to examine the items while he bustled about checking his inventory. Allowing a comfortable silence to settle, Nellie took her time, glancing to the window to make sure no other customers were forthcoming. After a minute or so, she casually asked, "I hope your business is doing well, Mr. Holmes?"

"Oh, very well thank you, very well," he replied cheerfully. "You know, a drug store is always in demand – "

"And how is your hotel doing? Must be busy what with the Exposition comin' up and all."

He paused just slightly before answering, and this time his voice was almost imperceptibly less jovial. "Yes, it's doing very well, thank you."

"It's just that I haven't really noticed many guests comin' and goin'," Nellie continued, pacing the counter, not really seeing any of the merchandise within. "Is there a different entrance the guests all come to, to register?"

"Ahm, no; but I'm sure you're so absorbed in your work most of the day that you hardly notice such trivia."

Her back turned to him, Nellie allowed herself a knowing smile. "It's just that I thought some of your guests might come down to the bakery every once in a while; but none of my customers ever mention stayin' with you."

Holmes merely said "Mmm…"

"Y'know, Mr. Holmes, I've been thinkin'," Nellie pressed. "Your employees…I'm sure they all work very hard in that hotel of yours. I'd like to do somethin' nice for 'em. Have 'em all down to the shop for tea some afternoon."

"Yes, that would be lovely, Mrs. Marlowe, lovely," Holmes replied amidst the sound of shifting boxes. Had Nellie been paying less attention, she might have missed the tremor in his voice, the way he spoke just _that_ much too fast.

"That lovely young lady you introduced me to yesterday, for example, the blonde – what did you tell me her name was, again?"

He cleared his throat rather loudly. "Ahh…ah, you know, I hire so many people on a day to day basis, Mrs. Marlowe, my staff is growing quite large..."

"I haven't seen her this mornin'," Nellie pressed, noticing that Toby was now gradually sidling closer to her. "Did she end up stayin' on?"

"Have you reached a decision, dear lady?" Holmes practically shouted, springing around the jewelry counter and fixing Nellie with wild eyes and a smile so tight as to be a grimace.

Toby was close by her side now, fastening his gaze on Holmes and crossing his arms, managing to look rather menacing. Nellie simpered at the druggist and said, "Yes, I think I'll take this one here," randomly pointing to a hatpin with a faux pearl bauble.

"An excellent choice," said Holmes, removing it from the case, never once taking his eyes off her. "And please, no charge."

"Oh now, Mr. Holmes, I couldn't – "

"Madam, I insist. Consider it a gift. For being such a good tenant."

She smiled almost shyly. "All right, then." And when he had boxed up the pin and handed the package to her across the counter, she made sure to ever so subtly brush his fingers with her own, taking only enough time to register the look of pleased astonishment on his face before turning to leave.

"God almighty, Mum!" Toby hissed as they crossed the street. "What'd you think you were doing?!"

She raised an eyebrow at him. "What're you talkin' about?"

"_What_ is goin' on with you this mornin'? All that business just now with lookin' over the hotel; and why were you – " He broke off, shaking his head. "You're playin' a dangerous game with that bloke, Mum."

She drew a deep breath. "That may be, son…but it might end up bein' my only way in there to find out what's really goin' on."

They continued in silence until they reached the shop, Nellie opening the door and setting out the sign. "Why d'you want to get in the hotel so bad anyway?" Toby asked as he headed back to the kitchen, talking over his shoulder on the way.

Nellie figured he'd find out sooner or later anyway. Might as well be up-front about it now…he might even prove helpful, keep his own eyes peeled when she couldn't. She followed him into the kitchen and leaned against the doorframe, observing him rummage about in the cupboards. Drawing a deep breath, she said, "I made a promise to Mr. Todd last night, to look after his daughter."

Toby nearly dropped the mixing bowl he'd just taken down. Suddenly the air between Nellie and her son was thick enough to slice with a cleaver. "What're you makin' him promises for?" he said, frozen in place, his voice too quiet for Nellie's liking.

She sighed, unsure how to best proceed. She didn't like the wary look in his eyes, the sense of tension coming off him, like a coiled spring; and she realized, with almost a sense of dread, that she'd let it go too long, this…_thing_, whatever it was, that constantly simmered in him just below the surface, ever since Fall River, and had lately been threatening to boil over. She only hoped she wasn't too late to dissipate it.

"Toby," she began carefully, trying to keep her voice neutral and calm. "I think it's time you and I had a talk about what happened between me and Mr. Todd."

He shrugged. "What's to talk about? He was a bastard to you, you threw him out. Good on you and good riddance to him." But something like confusion passed across his face for a fleeting second before he turned away and pulled a bowl of hazelnuts towards him, then took up a pestle and began pummeling them with a vengeance. He was going to ruin them that way – Nellie needed them crushed, not pulverized into powder – but she decided to say nothing, figuring this was what the lad needed at the moment.

"I want to know how you feel about it," she pressed.

"Just told you, didn't I?"

This was going to be more difficult than she'd anticipated.

"Toby – "

"How do I feel? I wish I could grind up his head like I'm grindin' up these things right now. So I guess it's a good thing you've been keepin' me away from the blighter, ain't it? 'Cause I've done it before, haven't I?"

Ice seemed to pour down Nellie's back.

So abruptly was the breath driven from her lungs that she automatically reached a hand to the wall to keep from swaying, suddenly lightheaded. A sickening eternity passed before she felt air slip back into her, and she just managed to mutter, "_What_ did you say?..."

As if he hadn't been aware of the words leaving his mouth until Nellie drew his attention to them, Toby blinked and went completely still. "I didn't…look, I didn't mean that – "

But Nellie wasn't so sure. She'd made a terrible mistake, she knew now, in leaving the boy alone to work out the Fall River incident all on his own. Sweeney had told her once, not long ago, that Toby had briefly approached him about it, but the conversation hadn't gone anywhere, they hadn't come to any conclusions. But she'd thought that was a good sign, that the boy was at least willing to open up to someone; and if that someone was Sweeney, so much the better. She thought it might bring the two of them closer. Only now was she beginning to see that not taking the initiative had only allowed the damage to fester into something she hoped wasn't yet out of control. Forcing strength into her voice, she demanded, "What _did_ you mean, Toby?"

He threw down the pestle, sending it rolling along the counter, and Nellie could see anxiety fast supplanting his former bravado. "Look," he said, his voice tremulous, "I don't know…I won't…I wouldn't do that, all right? I hate him for what he's done to you, but…I'm not gonna do anythin' to him, because…I don't understand it, he was ready to die for you, Mum, in F – in Fall Ri – "

Now they were coming to it…"Say it, Toby."

But he only stood there, his jaw set, his small chest heaving so hard as he rapidly sucked air that Nellie feared he might faint. He couldn't even speak the name of the town.

"We need to talk about that night, son."

For the first time, he turned and faced her. "What about it? Bloke come after you, I stopped him."

"You killed a man, Toby."

His eyes were hardening. She was losing him. "You're one to talk," he muttered.

She didn't flinch. "I'm not judgin' you, and this inn't about me."

For a moment they only stared each other down, silently battling over who would break down first. Finally, Toby looked away, snatched up the pestle again, and resumed his assault on the hazelnuts. "I did what I had to, and I don't regret it," he said, his tone making it clear that this conversation was finished.

Then he shut down, and Nellie knew she wasn't going to get anything else out of him. Not at the moment, anyway. But for the first time, she'd seen the real extent of the damage he'd suffered, the danger it posed him; and as she left him to answer the shop bell announcing her first customer of the day, she resolved not to let up on the lad until she'd tricked, wheedled, or dragged the poison from his mind.

Before he became too much like Sweeney Todd.

* * *

Johanna couldn't discern the source of the feeble, sickly yellow light that hung about Holmes' "maze" – only just bright enough to stave off complete darkness, yet sufficiently weak to require her to squint and move slowly – but she was grateful for it. She didn't fancy groping about with only God knew what awaiting her as she rounded corners. Although the light did tend to cast odd shadows here and there…dim shapes Johanna thought must be her own shadow, until they went darting off in a different direction, or moved, ever so subtly, out of sync with her movements…

She guessed roughly that she'd been carefully picking her way along the narrow passages for about a quarter of an hour, and still she hadn't encountered anything out of the ordinary. It seemed she was merely going in circles, as she kept coming around to the same layouts of walls. Then again, she couldn't be certain even of this: it was practically impossible to establish any guiding features, as the bizarre lighting had a peculiar effect of making all the walls and corners look washed-out, somehow. Sometimes she'd think she was approaching a flat surface, only to discover on drawing right up to it that she was faced with at least two angles branching off in odd directions.

Quickening her step, constantly fighting the ever-present tug of panic that threatened to swamp her, the little voice at the back of her mind that told her she would never find the end, she followed the well-trod corridor she'd been consistently returning to, until at length she came to a T-junction. She could have sworn she hadn't seen this the last time she'd passed this way, and the thought fleetingly crossed her mind that the walls might be able to shift somehow. But she dashed that idea away as ridiculous and decided instead that different areas had been designed to look identical to others, and she'd simply ended up taking a path that only _seemed_ similar to the one she'd been stuck in since the beginning. Peering around the angle to her left, she saw a simple corridor, narrower to be sure than the others but lighted and safe-looking. Craning her head to the right, she found a wide passage, extending indefinitely, whose walls dissolved into darkness a few yards along. She didn't like the feel of this, so she turned back to her left and started down the plain-seeming hallway.

It seemed to gradually wane in size, becoming narrower and shorter as she went along. She thought it must be an illusion, until after a few minutes the passage ended blind with the ceiling only an inch clear of her head.

She had to retrace her steps, and there was nothing for it but to take the poorly-lit corridor.

She drew a tremulous breath. Surely, she thought, this couldn't go on forever. It was in the center of a building…Bolstering her courage with the thought that she might be nearly at the end, she stepped forward –

Painfully slow, she crept along, dreading the dark line up ahead that signaled an end to the comparatively comforting yellow glow. Only when she was a scant few feet from plunging into that obscurity did she hear the footsteps.

At first she didn't think much of them. Didn't even hear them, really, except as a dull echo of her own movements. It wasn't until she paused briefly, gathering her resolve to enter the darkness, and heard the steps going on a fraction of a moment beyond the cessation of her own, that she realized something was wrong.

She was certain it must be Holmes, having had his fill of amusement and come to chase her down…The flesh of her back was crawling at the thought of his eyes on her; any moment she might feel his breath at the nape of her neck…She shivered involuntarily, not daring to look round but perversely wanting to –

When the steps behind her sounded again, and she still hadn't moved, a violent chill shook her entire being and she fairly fell forward, stumbling over the hem of her dress, pitching blindly into the unknown with the pursuing feet fast closing in –

She collided head-on into walls she couldn't see, her breath refusing to come under her control, escaping in great heaving sobs now…Each time she crashed into a wall she reeled back, towards whoever or whatever was hunting her, and pitched blindly forward again, her hands reaching desperately into the blackness, thick as tar; she could almost feel the dark itself pressing around her, rushing into her nose and mouth and down her throat and threatening to suffocate her. It was sheer luck that her hands managed to locate openings and corners, and always she lunged into these, having no idea of her direction, whether she was doubling back to the start, coming round to a place where she would collide with her pursuer and be caught in his arms and God only knew what would happen to her then…

She didn't even know if she was being chased anymore, she only hurtled onward…Finally, suddenly, her feet, automatically pounding one ahead of the other, found no purchase – she was falling, suspended in blackness forever –

She hit a surface, but only hard enough to have the wind knocked out of her, and she quickly pushed herself to her knees, taking a moment to collect herself and get her bearings. She supposed she must not have fallen as far as she'd thought; and looking up tentatively, she saw that indeed she'd only tumbled down a three-foot drop. The darkness, and the momentum of her running headlong, essentially throwing herself off the ledge, had made it seem much greater.

Then she wondered how she was seeing that ledge at all, and realized that the space she now occupied was illumined by a warm, weakly flickering orange light. Slowly, she turned to look about for the source. If there was a candle or a lamp somewhere about, she could take it with her –

Her hands flew to her mouth to stifle the gasp that escaped her as her heart leapt into her throat.

She was kneeling in a tiny space, about four feet square. Behind her was the ledge and the maze; closed doors occupied the other three walls; and in the far corner huddled a shape that fixed Johanna with a wide, gleaming stare.

This was the source of the light – a woman, crouching and trembling, holding a single match in her slender, grimy fingers.

She only had enough time to say "Congratulations" before the match burned out.

Panting, stunned from the shock of discovering another human being in this place so unexpectedly, Johanna managed to force out the words "Who – who are you?"

"Anne," came the answer from the darkness.

Johanna swallowed, feeling her pulse slowly returning to normal. "Holmes," she whispered, hating even the feel of his name in her mouth. "He trapped you here as well..."

Her new acquaintance didn't respond to that, but asked a question of her own. "Did he follow you?"

Johanna shook her head, then realized the woman couldn't see her and answered, "I think he must have been, for a while; but I don't hear anything now. Did you go through the maze as well, then?"

"Yes."

"How long have you been here?"

A soft scrape – a yellow flare as another match was struck, apparently against the wall. Anne looked at the palm of her hand in the light, then turned her hand outwards, and Johanna saw marks drawn on the woman's flesh. "Two weeks," Anne explained softly. "I came here for employment…he…"

Her eyes went distant; the trembling of her limbs became almost violent. Thinking she must be still suffering from whatever trauma Holmes had inflicted on her, Johanna approached her cautiously, to see if she could provide any assistance. Only then did she notice the disheveled condition of the young woman: the deep bruises on her neck, throat, and arms; the ugly red welts on her fingers (from burned-down matches, Johanna assumed), and the tattered, filthy state of her dress, covered with deep stains…almost black, like a quantity of dried blood…

"What did he do to you?" Johanna asked gently, pity rising in her and threatening to spill over in tears of both compassion and terror at once.

Anne seemed to notice that Johanna was chiefly referring to her dress, and said, in a faraway voice, "It's not mine…He made me wear it…Said it belonged to someone he knew once…It was like this when he gave it to me."

Johanna felt her gorge rise. Holmes had…killed someone, from the appearance of that soiled material, and then tortured this poor woman, if her bruised skin was any indication, and forced her to wear his dead victim's bloodstained garments…What manner of twisted monster was this?

And how could there be any chance of success against such depths of evil?...

It seemed to Johanna that there was no end to the depraved cruelty human beings could sink to…Just when she began to think she'd seen the worst, another always came along to surpass even that…

There had only ever been one good thing, one thing not tainted by such corruption, and that was her Anthony.

The thought of him – of returning to him, of the fear and worry he must experience when he realized she wasn't coming home – once again steeled her resolve to defeat this place, just as it had before she'd stepped into the maze…

"Anne," Johanna said, trying to draw the woman back to their present situation. "There must be a way out of here."

Anne shook her head slowly. "There's no leaving this place. Once he has you…you're his, forever…"

Something about this statement infuriated Johanna, and her fear was replaced by the same determination she'd discovered within herself just before entering the maze. "Nonsense," she declared. "We're in this together now, you and I. Two are always safer and smarter than one alone. We're going to look for a way out together, and we're going to find it." And she gently grasped Anne's arm and helped her to her feet. Anne, meanwhile, was staring incredulously at Johanna, but not resisting her efforts.

"Now," Johanna said, in a businesslike tone that rather successfully masked the abject depths of her fear; "first we need out of this room, and then we need to find a light. Those matches won't last forever."

Figuring they didn't have much to lose at this point, Johanna turned randomly to one of the doors and wrenched it open. Anne screamed at the top of her lungs, making Johanna start violently – both reactions without cause. Behind the door – _thank God!_ – was a staircase, narrow and steep, but beautifully, mercifully, leading _down_. Down meant out to Johanna's mind, and she clutched Anne's hand and wordlessly pulled her along, gathering up her skirts as she picked her way from one step to the next, praying madly the entire way...

"It's not going to work," said Anne, chuckling humorlessly. "You think he actually made this place with an exit?..."

Johanna ignored this. She needed to believe…

Her heart beat faster as the bottom of the stairs came into view – and beyond – yes, a door!

She'd never seen anything so beautiful in all her life; her face broke into a grin of relief as she reached for the knob, longing for the sight of the ground floor, the door outside, freedom –

A jolt of pain went searing up her arm, seeming to travel to her very heart, throwing her backwards; she crashed into Anne, who matter-of-factly said "I keep trying to tell you," just as her latest match winked out.

Part of Johanna called her a great fool for what she did next; but somehow she couldn't being herself to believe what had just happened. How was such a thing possible? It had felt as though that innocuous metal knob had a life of its own. So she reached out again…and screamed in agony as it happened again, this time even worse, stronger than before, leaving her weak and shaking and sick.

There was no escape this way.

"He's laughing at us," Anne remarked casually.

Still trembling violently, Johanna simply stood gulping down air, partly in anger, partly to quell the nausea Holmes' little trick had caused, mostly to get her panic under control as her darker thoughts began taking over her mind…The hope she'd tried so hard to preserve was slipping away; she began to feel they really were trapped in their own grave, with only a matter of time between their futile efforts at escape and Holmes' tiring of the game, bringing the inevitable end…

Anne struck another match, and as Johanna's eyes lit on her gore-soaked dress, she forced down images of what that end might be.

Together, they made their way back up the stairs, and Johanna chose one of the two remaining doors at random and threw it open. Weak gaslight – blinding in comparison to the feeble matchlight they'd been relying on – glowed beyond as if in welcome, illuminating a wide hall, with a door-lined corridor leading off of it to the right. They had found their way back into the open area, and that meant they could find the main staircase…

Johanna seized Anne's hand and pulled her – dragged, more like; it seemed the woman was purposely throwing her weight backwards, trying to bring them both back into that tiny space she apparently considered so safe. But Johanna sensed that staying in one spot for too long in this place would prove a death sentence; and she plowed on into the hall, moving quickly, sensing, somehow, that Holmes must know what they were up to and would not brook their opposition to his plans…There was a stairway on the right, but it only led up to the third floor, and Johanna did _not_ want to delve deeper into the building…They would simply need to make a mad, directionless dash through the corridor and hope to God they'd somehow end up at the main stair…

"Hold on," she said, trying more to reassure herself than her companion, because now she could feel eyes on her, watching, intensely displeased…whatever she and Anne had done, she could sense that Holmes wasn't happy about it. Perhaps he'd never meant for them to get out of the maze; perhaps he'd forgotten something, was growing careless?...She couldn't afford to indulge in such idle speculation, though: she reminded herself that all her energy must be spent in the bare effort of keeping one step ahead of her captor.

"You can't run from him," said Anne behind her; but Johanna wasn't listening. She hurried onward, outright running now, until at last she found an open archway ahead to the right, and made for it, thinking it might lead to the main hall and stair to the ground floor. But the instant she passed under the arch, she found herself hurtling headlong into a room; and before she could correct her mistake, the door slammed shut behind her with the unmistakable _snick_ of the lock falling into place.

She spun around too late – finding herself closed in, she simply leaned against the door for a moment, trying to regain her breath, gather her nerves for whatever might be in store next. When she felt nearly stable again, she turned to examine her surroundings and saw a very innocent-looking room – just what one would expect of a normal hotel. It was small, with a bed, night table, desk and chair, a few paintings hanging here and there on the walls…nothing ominous about it at all. She knew she mustn't let her guard down; but at the same time, this respite might be a good chance to get her bearings.

"Anne," she said, turning to find her companion – and realized with horror that they'd been separated.

She started pounding on the door, calling "Anne! _Anne!_" and meeting with no response. She tried to work the knob, but it was stuck fast, wouldn't budge. She hammered on the door until her hands were in pain, but knew it was no use, and finally gave up.

"Anne is being well looked after, my dear."

Johanna whipped about at the sound of that voice, and saw Holmes slowly approaching her. But there was no way into the room, except the door she'd come through…how had he gotten in?...

Casually, as if he were taking a Sunday afternoon stroll, as if he had all the time in the world, he moved across the room. "I've spent so much time thinking of what to do with you, darling," he said softly, his eyes scanning her face. "I knew from the start it had to be something…_very _special. And you inspired me to create something new. So simple, so obvious, so…fitting for you. You'll be the first, my dear…"

She didn't understand him – didn't want to; tried to ignore the fact that he was reaching inside his jacket…

"What have you done with Anne?" she forced her voice to ask.

"She's burning," he replied blankly. "She ended up in the burning room next door. Ironic, isn't it? That you would end up here, nice and safe, preserved for my special arrangement, just as I'd hoped you would be?..."

Before she could respond, his hand was over her mouth and nose, and she was inhaling something sweet, and swooning, feeling as though Holmes was trying to submerge her under warm, swirling water. She was instantly prevented from struggling against him by a paralyzing weakness, and as she sank below the surface of consciousness she heard his voice, as if muffled by layers of wool, "You will be my masterpiece…"

* * *

It was very difficult to pace while on crutches, but Anthony was doing his best.

He hadn't seen or heard from Johanna in three days. On his fourth day in the hospital, she'd visited as usual, and nothing seemed amiss with her. The next day again, she hadn't come. He expressed a concern to his physician about this, but the man had only smiled and mumbled something about "probably busy with keeping the house" or some such nonsense. But the next day, she again made no appearance. At that point Anthony was frantic and insisted that the police be summoned, but the doctor had only looked at him with something like pity. Later, he heard the nurses talking outside his room – thinking he was sleeping, he supposed – and he overheard them saying that "his poor wife probably went back to her family…he'll never be quite the same, you know…certainly won't be able to go back to his old job…probably always walk with a limp now…"

Only yesterday he'd been released, and when the carriage driver asked him his address, he'd told him to just drive to the police.

Law enforcement also did not seem particularly sympathetic to his plight; but after he refused to leave unless and until something was done about his wife, they reluctantly complied with his request to comb the city in search of her.

And now, with no word, doubting the police were even bothering to make an effort, Anthony was pacing his floor, breathing hard through his nose, running a shaking hand through his hair, wracking his brain over where she might have gone…

She certainly wouldn't go against his wishes and her physician's orders and leave on her own. Something terrible must have befallen her…It was a large and unfamiliar city; anything could have happened…she might have been simply on her way to market and –

He shook his head with an audible grunt of denial. _Got to keep your wits in order, Hope…think!..._

Just then, his mental efforts were disturbed by a knock on the door.

His heart skipped – he hobbled to the front hall as quickly as the crutches and his injuries allowed. Through the glass panes of the door, he saw two dark shapes that appeared to be wearing the tall, rounded headgear of policemen – officers, at last!

He jerked open the door and eschewed politeness to ask, "Any word, gentlemen?"

The men looked at each other a moment before one said, "No, lad. That's all we came to tell you."

Fury gripped Anthony's chest. "Well what the hell good does _that_ do?!" he raged. "You've found nothing. Nothing at all?!..."

"Well now," said the other officer, "there's no need for all that, good sir. We're doing our best. We only thought you'd want to know the progress of the investigation, that everything that can be done is being done. These things take time, you know…"

Anthony barely heard him, he was struggling so valiantly to hold back the tears of wrath and frustration pricking the back of his eyes. His jaw clenched, and through his teeth he ground out, "The next time you come to this house, gentlemen, I strongly suggest you have better news. Or any news at all."

So saying, he slammed the door in their faces and resumed his pacing. "Useless," he muttered aloud…

He didn't know how much time passed, only that it was finally dark before he sank into a chair in the kitchen, leaning heavily on the table, exhausted, too panicked to rest or sleep, the words continuing to run through his head over and over…

_Where…where can she have gone?..._

And then, from some unbidden place in the recesses of his fevered mind, the answer somehow bubbled to the surface…He didn't know what triggered the thought, but suddenly, certainly, one word resounded in his mind…

_Todd._

Of course…that had to be the answer…The barber had found her, somehow – had known that Anthony would be gone, unable to protect her, and he'd found her, and taken her away…

Slowly, like a man waking from a dream, Anthony straightened, his palms open on the surface of the table before him, blinking, trying to work out this realization. He knew Todd's office was on 63rd Street…but it was late in the evening now, surely he wouldn't still be there…

So Anthony spent the rest of the night at the kitchen table, working out a plan in his mind to confront Todd himself, first thing in the morning. He didn't want to get the police involved: they'd likely brush off the implication of the "respectable Dr. Marlowe", as the hospital staff had referred to him, in a crime of any sort. Anthony knew it was all on him now. And so the last thought he had, before sheer exhaustion overtook him somewhere around one in the morning, was the certainty that, even in his broken state, he could and would kill Todd if the fiend had done any harm at all to his wife.

* * *

**A/N:** I'm dissatisfied with this chapter, so **please please _please_ review** and let me know how it can be improved. Thanks for reading!!


	9. Secrets

**Disclaimers:** See Prologue.

**A/N:** Thanks so much to my reviewers, for your encouraging comments on the last chapter. I know, I know, I'm a perfectionist. I can't help it, I want everything I write to be the best it can be :)

I've had some comments about Sweeney's absence in that last chapter. I want you all to know that I passed these concerns on to the man himself, and he he wanted me to let you all know that he was so very touched by the fact that you all missed him so greatly. ;D

Enjoy this installment!

* * *

**8**

**Secrets.**

Three days passed after Holmes had made Nellie the gift of the hatpin, and not one of those days had gone by without the druggist visiting her bakery first thing each morning, ostensibly to make small talk. He even brought her a modest flower arrangement once (much to Toby's consternation); and she'd caught his gaze wandering to her left hand, where her wedding ring had once been. Holmes never mentioned it, but she knew he noticed its absence. Nellie thought all this boded well for her plans to cajole Holmes into letting her into the hotel; but two days later she seemed no closer to this goal. She'd even tried stealing to the hotel door and picking the lock with the very same hatpin Holmes had given her, to no avail. She was getting anxious, despite telling herself to be patient, wait him out – she still hadn't seen a trace of Johanna.

It wasn't until early in the morning on that third day that she realized Holmes' secrets far surpassed even her darkest suspicions.

Toby was busy in the kitchen, as usual, and Nellie was at the front counter attempting to deal with a long line of customers, when two uniformed men strolled by the window.

Nellie's whole body went stiff – it had only been a few months since she and her small family had been hunted and nearly killed by police in Fall River, and the sight of a copper could still fairly stop her heart. She succeeded in hiding her reaction from her clientele; but she made a point of keeping a wary watch on the pair from the corner of her eye. _They might pass by…I'm sure they'll pass by…_please_ pass by…_

But they turned to her door and entered the shop.

Well, perhaps they'd just come in for some refreshment. That wouldn't be so out of the ordinary…But instead of approaching the counter, they took a seat at one of the tables, and kept casting glances in Nellie's direction, as if they were waiting for her to finish her work.

Her pulse raced faster as she automatically filled orders and tallied bills. What if they were here about Fall River?...What if they were here about…Oh God, what if her real identity had been discovered somehow, and they were here to extradite her to England?...

Her hands were outright trembling now, and a bead of sweat rolled slowly, unpleasantly down the hollow of her spine. Toby was in the back room – if she could somehow tell him, he could get away, out the back door…he could warn Sweeney…

And when she realized she'd never see Sweeney Todd again, it was everything she could do to hold herself together, and she hated herself for it.

The last customer was almost on his way now, and she frantically laid out a plan in her head as she made his change, nervously dropping a few pennies in the process. _Tell the officers to wait. Get to Toby. Tell him to run like hell…_

The bell jingled at the last customer's departure, and the policemen were instantly on their feet, their eyes fastened on Nellie.

She smiled broadly. "Well now, officers, what can I do for you this fine day?"

"Well ma'am – "

"Oh! You'll excuse me just a moment, won't you? I need to check on the fruit pies." The lie rolled easily off her tongue, and she hastily made for the kitchen.

"Ma'am," one of the officers said, approaching the counter, "I really must insist that you – "

"Oh now," she cut him off, "won't be more than a minute, I'm sure – " and her hand was on the kitchen door –

"Madam, I really must insist; this is a matter of gravest urgency."

She stiffened. Her worst fears were realized. They'd be sure to follow her into the kitchen, and they'd find Toby…if indeed they didn't already know he was there. Had others already found Sweeney?...Was he even now in a holding cell, in chains, awaiting –

_Stop this. Hysteria isn't like you, Nell. Christ's sake, pull yourself together…_

Drawing a deep breath, still smiling, she quietly asked, "What is it, good sirs? I'm a busy woman, you understand."

The first officer politely inclined his head. "We certainly do, ma'am, and we'll try not to detain you any longer than absolutely necessary. My name is Frost; this is my partner Crombie."

Nellie nodded.

"We're here because we've received a complaint from a Mr. Anthony Hope, employed by Chicago Shipbuilding Company. Says his wife's been missing going on four days now."

Nellie masked her cry of relief as a noise of distress. "Oh! That's dreadful," she remarked, hardly feeling the word in her elation that they hadn't come to ship her off to the gallows at Newgate.

"Yes," Frost went on; "Mr. Hope is at home recovering from injuries he sustained at work about a week ago. He told us he began worrying when his wife didn't pay him her customary visit in the hospital, but obviously there wasn't much he could do about it then. We've been canvassing this area of the city yesterday afternoon and this morning."

"Young lady's name is Johanna," Crombie picked up, "blonde hair, blue eyes, fair-complected. To be honest, I think we're on a wild-goose chase; she's probably left him and gone home to Mother; but duty, you know…"

"Yes," Nellie breathed, "I quite understand." As her fears of the officers' purpose eased, the real situation was beginning to sink in. Her suspicions had been right all along: Johanna hadn't been home since Holmes hired her…he was keeping her _up there_ for some…twisted reason…she was likely right over Nellie's head just at that moment –

And it was becoming rapidly clear that whoever went up there simply never came out again.

All Nellie could think of now was getting to Sweeney and telling him all this; but the officers had to be dealt with first.

She could tell them she'd seen Johanna in Holmes' company. Then they would search the hotel. But if they did this, might they believe she knew nothing about Holmes' activities, whatever their nature? She _was _associated with the man, albeit only as a tenant; they might suspect she had something to do with luring his victims here…then her background would be investigated, and they'd certainly discover that her current identity had been forged…and her criminal past would finally, fatally, catch up with her.

She had no doubt that Sweeney would have no compunction about taking matters into his own hands where his daughter was concerned: once she got rid of the police, she could inform him of the situation and he'd certainly come back here and give Holmes one of his old-time shaves…but that would mean repeating everything she'd been trying so hard to get her family away from…

She was still debating which course to take when she heard Frost say "Ma'am? Any information you have might be much appreciated…Have you seen a young lady matching this description recently?"

She was on the verge of answering that she hadn't, when who should burst through the door but H.H. Holmes.

He threw the door back so viciously that it hit the wall, its glass panes rattling dangerously. Never had Nellie seen such a look, on Holmes or on anyone else, not even Sweeney – murderous and desperate and furious and _panicked_ all at once. His eyes, like coal pits, instantly fixed on the officers. He must have seen them from his store across the street.

"Good day, gentlemen!" Holmes cried, far too exuberantly, making the two men jump and then laugh at themselves. But Nellie wasn't laughing. Holmes was exuding a terrible energy, an aura of hatred and maliciousness that Nellie could feel clear across the room and behind the counter. She listened as Holmes explained that he was the proprietor of the building, and then as the officers related the purpose of their visit, describing Johanna just as they had to Nellie a moment before.

For just the fraction of a moment, Holmes' face spasmed when he was told Johanna's husband had submitted the complaint that led to the search. But it passed; and he finally laughed heartily and said, "Oh, my dear gentlemen! The young lady you seek is indeed under this very roof! Why, I had no _idea_ she was married! And coming off to work without her husband's knowledge! My goodness, if I'd only known…but come right this way, officers; she's hard at work right this moment and I'll be happy to take you to her directly."

The men looked relieved that their task was accomplished; but Nellie wondered what Holmes was up to…Surely he wasn't going to really give up Johanna if he was keeping her there for nefarious purposes…unless the police and the mention of a husband had badly frightened him…She had a bad feeling, and said "Mr. Holmes, why don't you send these men on their way so they can make out their report or whatever it is they do for cases like this? Then you can send the young lady on home, hey?"

She thought Holmes might kill her, the way he looked at her just then.

Crombie looked tempted; but Frost said "Oh, we appreciate that, Mrs…"

"Marlowe."

"Mrs. Marlowe; but it really is necessary that we see our duty through to the end and escort the lady back home properly."

Holmes smiled and nodded and gestured to the door, and when the officers were out of the shop, waiting for him to lead them upstairs, he turned to Nellie, bowed to her, and gave her a grin of such malevolence it raised the hair on the back of her neck.

When he'd vanished around the corner with the police, Nellie called for Toby. "Go out the back door," she told him, "and keep and eye out for Mr. Holmes, will you? And two policemen – "

Toby's eyes widened in panic at the last word. "It's all right dear," Nellie reassured him hastily; "it's nothin' to do with us. Just go quick now, there's a good lad."

His brow furrowed, but he nodded and went off. Nellie remained staring out the window, her eyes riveted on Holmes' store for several minutes until customers and the general demands of her work required her to look away. But she kept half her attention on the street, carefully watching from the corner of her eye…

She had no way of knowing how much time went by – it had to have been half an hour – with no sign of Holmes, before Toby finally reappeared, looking very annoyed, and reported that he hadn't seen hide nor hair of the man around the back of the building, and no stirring at any of the curtained windows.

"What about the coppers? See them anywhere about?"

Toby shook his head.

Nellie sighed, frustrated – but when she turned back towards the window, she caught a glimpse of shadowy movement – Holmes was back in his shop, casually chatting to a customer.

There was no sign of the officers.

Nellie had to grab hold of a chair back to simply have contact with concrete reality. She _knew_ she hadn't seen the druggist cross the street – granted, she'd been occupying herself about the shop as she'd kept an eye out; but she'd been observant nonetheless, and she certainly would have seen him at some stage of his progress. Toby had been out back the entire time and hadn't seen him…

"You told me Mr. Holmes didn't come out the back of the buildin'," she said to Toby, her eyes never leaving Holmes.

"He _didn't_, Mum."

"You're sure?"

"I'm _positive_."

"Well, look."

Toby's eyes followed her pointing hand, and when he registered Holmes' presence across the street, he muttered "Bloody hell…"

"How in the world did he get over there?" Nellie murmured – to herself, really; but Toby answered "That's impossible, that is…"

The two of them stood in shocked silence for a moment, until Toby quietly said, "He's got to have some other way of gettin' over there."

"Yes," Nellie said thoughtfully. "…D'you think you could ever find how he does it, if you had to?" In the event that her charms failed to effect her purpose, this would be the next best plan.

"S'pose I could, if I had the shop to myself and time to look around proper."

She dropped the subject, leaving Toby to return to his work. She considered putting him in charge of the shop and going to Sweeney right then – he needed to know what was going on. But she didn't fancy the thought of leaving Toby on his own with Holmes prowling about…It would have to wait till this evening.

* * *

Four days.

Four long days had passed since Sweeney's talk with Nellie. And in all that time she hadn't sent him a single word about Johanna.

He couldn't blame her – he'd had no right to ask, really. When he thought about it, he realized it had actually been a rather callous request, considering that Johanna, as a vestige of his past, was indirectly the cause of his and Nellie's current situation. Still, he'd hoped…It would have made him feel closer to his daughter, and it would have given him a reason to be in touch with his wife.

He physically ached for her presence, as if their encounter four nights ago had been a dose of opium that offered him a taste of its wonders and then cruelly withdrew its effects, leaving him chilled and plagued by nightmares. Every night since then, without fail, he would dream of her…her skin smooth and warm under his hands, her arms wound fast around him, her soft hair caressing his face, flowing through his fingers, her lips forming his name against his neck…so terribly vivid, he would wake convinced that her scent still clung to him. And it was all such a cruel nightmare, because even in the dream he knew it was only a shadow, a mirage. Just this morning he'd awakened to the sound of his own voice mumbling "Don't go" as he'd felt her fade away.

_Blast…_Business had been slow so far today, only one patient – a broken leg, which he was setting at just this moment, gone nine-thirty but feeling much later. It wasn't enough to keep his mind off things…off the memory of his dreams…

Three and a half hours remained until he could close for his customary lull at noon. He determined to pay Holmes a visit again at that time, and stand across the street and look at her, just gaze on her, as he'd done before.

And if she didn't have too many customers, if his presence wouldn't fluster her…he might go in and ask her why she hadn't kept her promise about Johanna.

Sweeney was just finishing splinting his patient's limb, saying "All right, Mr. Salter, I think you're nearly – " when he heard his street door crash open and a male voice shouting, violently agitated, _"Where is she?!"_

Fearing that a lunatic had stumbled into his establishment, and would very likely frighten the wits out of the two men in the waiting area – brothers who'd who'd brought their uncle in for treatment on his leg – Sweeney frowned deeply, turned to his patient, and said "I'll return shortly."

And who should he find standing in the center of his waiting room, heaving for breath like an enraged bull, but Anthony Hope.

His voice had been so desperate, so uncharacteristically saturated with wrath, that Sweeney hadn't recognized it. And now, looking at him – his face was different somehow, more mature and careworn, as if he'd aged ten years overnight. Surely his injuries hadn't had _that_ much of an effect on him…Sweeney knew first-hand that only one thing could achieve that kind of transformation…

"Mr. Hope," he greeted quietly.

"Todd," hissed Anthony; and Sweeney nearly lunged at him then and there for using his real name in front of two witnesses. He ground his teeth but restrained himself, saying quickly, before Hope could cause any more damage, "I'll be happy to consult with you, son; but I'm with another patient at the moment. If you'll be so kind as to wait in my office – " And he gestured in the direction of that tiny room.

"What have you done with her?" Anthony barreled on through his clenched jaw; and now the two men seated on the sofa were casting anxious glances between each other, the surgeon, and the young intruder. Sweeney plastered on a venomous smile, walked over to Anthony, and gripped his injured wrist with just enough pressure to serve as a warning.

The young man seemed to wither slightly, and Sweeney took advantage of this to walk him into the office and shove him unceremoniously into the single chair. "You're lucky I don't cut your bloody tongue out for what you just did," he seethed. "You will not move from this spot until I come back, d'you understand?"

Anthony, positively quaking with barely-suppressed fury, merely regarded Todd through murderously narrowed eyes.

Sweeney returned to the waiting area and smoothly explained that the young man was a patient of his who'd come in for a follow-up visit and must even now be heavily under the influence of morphine for his pain, thus clouding his mind and causing him to say all manner of strange things and behave in all manner of strange ways. The brothers appeared only barely convinced by this; but Sweeney had no time to waste concerning himself about them at present. He finished dressing his patient's leg hastily and sent them all out with a "Don't worry about payment just now, I'll send my bill"; because he knew there was only one reason why Anthony Hope would ever wish to lay eyes on him again, and in such an agitated state…

He took in his sign and locked the street door before returning to his office, finding Hope considerably calmer but still exuding a passion of anger from every pore. With an effort, Sweeney stifled the question he really wished to ask and only said, "Now, what d'you mean bustin' into my place of business and threatenin' me and announcin' my name to the whole bleedin' world?"

"I haven't threatened you _yet_, Todd; I wouldn't waste my time. I want to know what you've done with her before I outright kill you."

Sweeney's heart plunged to the pit of his stomach, his suspicions practically confirmed. "_Her?_ Who're you talkin' about?"

Anthony looked as if he didn't know whether to scream or weep as he shakily answered, "Johanna."

Somehow, the speaking of her name seemed to drain all the hostility from him, and he visibly slumped in the chair, wrenching his gaze from Todd to stare resolutely at the floor.

Quickly, Sweeney moved to his desk drawer and pulled out the bottle of hard gin he'd been keeping there, handing it to Anthony and telling him to take a few good pulls. "I don't want a thing from you," he snarled predictably; but Sweeney protested, "Whatever's happened to your wife, Mr. Hope, I assure you I had nothing to do with it. Now I need you calm if we're to get to the end of this, so drink the damned alcohol."

Looking rather perplexed but somewhat mollified, Anthony took the bottle and did as Sweeney commanded.

The surgeon watched him in silence for a time, until after the third swig the former sailor seemed at least pacified enough to carry on a coherent conversation. Then he quietly said, "Now, tell me what happened."

He listened in burgeoning horror as Hope told him of Johanna's absence from first the hospital, then home; and felt his insides dissolve on hearing, finally, that today marked the fourth day of her being gone. Unable to remain still, Sweeney went to the window and glared out of it, trying to collect his thoughts…

"It's not like her, Mr. Todd," Anthony was saying. "I've notified the police" – here Sweeney's head whipped around, but the lad plowed on: "they haven't turned up anything at all. I…thought at first you might've gone and finished the job you'd started…"

He cut off, apparently unable to speak any longer, leaving Sweeney to the ramblings of his own mind. He was approaching panic now, and he had to reach back into the depths of a past he never wanted or intended to revisit in order to defeat it. He'd learned quickly, his first few days in the prison colony, that panic was the kiss of death. He'd discovered there how to fight it, and he used that skill now to good purpose. As his mind cleared, one voice, familiar and strong, pushed its way to the fore…

"…_she's workin' for that Holmes bloke now…The woman he lived with, and her little girl, they've gone missin'…And the girls what come to work for him, I never see 'em after they're hired…"_

Nellie…she had some gall, asking him if _he_ was punishing _her_. Clearly, it was the other way around: she was in that building every single day, she was Holmes' own tenant, could have spoken to him any time she wanted – and knowing her the way he did, Sweeney was certain she could get any information at all out of Holmes if she set her mind to it. And yet she'd given him, Sweeney, _nothing_…His Johanna was gone, and she'd done _nothing…_His consternation threatened to boil over when he thought that she'd let the situation go because it was Johanna, because Nellie so deeply resented the faintest trace of his past that she couldn't be bothered to care. He knew she'd have been more than capable of such a thing in the past; he'd like to think they'd come a long way since then, but perhaps her old ways had never quite left her.

She might even be _glad_ the girl was missing.

Trying hard to subdue his anger toward his estranged wife for the sake of keeping a clear head for the task at hand, Todd turned to Anthony and rumbled, "I know where we need to go. Don't ask questions, just come with me," quickly leaving the office and grabbing his coat off the rack just inside the door.

He heard Anthony scrape laboriously to his feet and shuffle to stand behind him. "What – I don't understand, why are you helping me?..."

"Don't listen very well, do you?" Sweeney growled. "No questions, I said. Now let's get movin' if you want to find your wife."

* * *

Sweeney didn't understand how he could experience so many conflicting, contradictory emotions at once.

He didn't want Holmes to see him approaching Nellie's shop, so he led Anthony to the back of the hotel and around the side, slipping into the bakery door as unobtrusively as possible. She didn't notice them at first, busy with customers as she was; but his eyes fastened on her immediately, and the rage he'd felt earlier, that she hadn't told him anything of Johanna, simmered right alongside the agony of love that overwhelmed him as he watched her going about her work. Such a simple, mundane thing; but he was transfixed by the way she went about it: in her element, doing what she knew she did best. By way of comparison, Sweeney thought back to his first marriage, trying to recall if he'd ever felt the same thing with Lucy; and he suddenly realized he'd never really been angry with her – a bit miffed from time to time, perhaps; but never furious, the way Nellie was capable of driving him over the brink of fury – so he was utterly unfamiliar with this awareness that he could feel such rage and such love, directed toward one person, with equal intensity and at the same time. It baffled him. And then the thought struck him that perhaps it was the very ferocity of the love that caused the anger to burn so much hotter. Because surely, if he didn't love Eleanor as deeply as he did, he wouldn't care that she habitually betrayed his trust for her own selfish ends…

Tearing his eyes away from her, he nodded to Anthony, who was eyeing Nellie with great trepidation. "Don't worry lad," said Sweeney under his breath, clapping the young man on the shoulder. "Veal pie days are behind us now."

Ignoring the indignant tightening of Anthony's jaw, Sweeney only smirked and led him to a corner table, where they could wait till the knot of customers died down.

They didn't have to wait long. As she turned her head a certain way to address one of her patrons, her dark eyes finally lit on Sweeney. To her credit, she didn't react visibly – but he knew she saw him; and only because he knew her so well, he didn't fail to notice the flickering glint of recognition in her eyes, tinged with anxiety and grief. All of this he registered in the space of less than an instant, and slightly inclined his head in greeting before she looked away again, returning her attention to the last two remaining customers.

When they were out the door, Nellie followed them, returning with the sign and turning the lock when she closed the door behind her. Only then did she turn to the two men, and the first words out of her mouth were "You're both here about Johanna, aren't you?"

Anthony straightened, his face eager and anxious. "Do you know where she is?"

Nellie frowned as she answered, in a cautious tone, "I'm afraid I do, Mr. Hope," and added with a curt nod, "Pleasure to see you again, by the way…"

Unable to contain his ire any longer, Sweeney got to his feet, stalking towards her, perversely relishing the look of sudden confusion on her face – a reaction, he knew, to the anger he knew must be showing in his own visage…"And yet," he said, smooth as silk, confused to distraction by his desire to both throttle her and take her in his arms, "you didn't see fit to inform me of this…development?"

Her frown deepened. "Well, all I had before this mornin' were suspicions, which you already knew about anyway. I couldn't very well go to you on those alone, could I? Not till I had somethin' definite to tell you."

Sweeney felt his anger towards her abating, despite his irrational desire to hold on to it. "And what happened this mornin' to make you more _definite_?" he asked.

"Two coppers showed up here about an hour ago, lookin' for her." Her eyes went past Todd's arm to Anthony, still seated at the table. "Mentioned your name, lad. That's how I knew she's been gone since I saw her last four days ago. And there's only one place she could be," she concluded, shifting her gaze back to her husband.

Behind him, Sweeney heard the scrape of the chair and the wobble of the table as Anthony rose unsteadily. "And did you tell them where to find her?"

Nellie kept her gaze on Sweeney as she replied, "Couldn't bloody well do that and risk havin' 'em question my own involvement."

Sweeney was just about to ask her what the hell she was talking about, when Anthony crossed the room on his crutches, shouting _"Involvement?!"_

"Take it easy, son," said Sweeney, turning his head and instinctively extending an arm to block the man's advance. In the same moment, he saw Nellie look to the window – she suddenly moved away and said "Not here…Come on back to the kitchen." And when Todd cast his own glance in the direction of 63rd Street, he saw H.H. Holmes in his store, standing at his own window, utterly motionless, like a shop mannequin, staring across at them – seeming to look right at them, watching them intently.

Sweeney Todd was not easily shaken; but this sight managed to chill even his blood.

Accordingly, he followed Nellie into the kitchen, Anthony trailing behind. "Toby in?" he asked as Nellie held the door open; and she replied that she'd sent him out for some flour a few minutes prior. "But if you're still here when he gets back he's not gonna be happy," she added; and Sweeney caught the note of resignation, almost dejection, in her voice.

"I can handle him," he said, and she looked at him then – really looked right at him, for the first time since he'd come in the door; and he saw something foreign in her eyes, something that startled him in its unfamiliarity…something he hadn't seen in her since Fleet Street…

Fear.

She was terrified of something – but she only allowed him a glimpse before looking away again, as if trying to hide her thoughts from him. There had been a time when they hid nothing from each other, and those memories made her action sting all the more. Her obvious distress had something to do with Toby, of that much Todd was certain – but now, with Anthony Hope listening, was not the time to pursue the matter.

Nellie nodded to the small table by the window, and the men took a seat while she poured three stiff whiskeys. Then she joined them and related, for Anthony's sake, how Johanna had come seeking a job from Holmes (the poor lad's face went white when he heard that); how Nellie had begun gradually developing suspicions about the druggist based on snippets of her patrons' gossip and her own observations; how her encounter with the policemen that very morning, had led her to deduce that Johanna had in fact never left the hotel. That no one ever left it, in fact, once Holmes got them inside. "You understand why I couldn't say a word to the police," she told Anthony. "If I gave Holmes away they'd be sure to investigate all his associations, includin' me. Formalities like that could be the end of us…"

Anthony was incredulous, only sitting there blankly, making no comment, polishing off his drink and helping himself to another.

Nellie turned to Sweeney while Anthony was thus occupied. "I wanted to come and tell you right away," she said softly; "but I don't trust Holmes, and leavin' Toby all alone with him slinkin' about didn't set right with me…"

"That boy can handle himself better than you think, Nell," Sweeney interrupted sternly.

She regarded him in silence for a moment, her expression unreadable; but when she answered him, Sweeney realized she was desperately tired and trying like mad not to show it. "I only wanted to tell you I'm glad you come by, 'cause I really didn't want to wait till this evenin' to tell you all this."

Her eyes, her voice, told Sweeney she was being honest with him, and he let out a long breath through his nose. He'd done his wife a great disservice, assuming that she'd purposely neglected his request for help because of her own selfishness…He was very nearly ashamed of himself, and he nodded brusquely to her, letting her know that he accepted what she was telling him.

"Todd."

Sweeney and Nellie both turned to Anthony, who was still gazing into his glass, poor lad, looking utterly lost and bewildered and numb. "Johanna…why are you – both of you – why are you so concerned?...why have you been keeping a watch on her all this time? It's clearly not what I thought at first…"

Without even realizing what he was doing, Sweeney looked to his wife, wordlessly seeking her counsel – just as he'd always done, just as he'd asked her permission with his eyes when Anthony had requested to bring Johanna to Fleet Street, a lifetime ago it seemed. Nellie held his gaze for a long moment, and Sweeney was thrown by the depth of compassion and understanding she allowed him to see – only for an instant, before breaking eye contact with a little shake of her head and saying, "Do what you think best."

But Sweeney hesitated. Anthony's brow creased; agitation seemed to be putting some life back into him as he shifted in his seat and demanded "Will one of you tell me what the _hell_ is going on?!" with no small amount of desperation.

Sweeney considered what Hope was asking. He supposed the lad had a right to know – it concerned his wife, after all…and perhaps, if he knew the truth, he might be less averse to accepting Sweeney's assistance. And even less likely to harbor ideas of ever notifying the authorities of his and Nellie's true identities. Besides – if they were going to be working together to find Johanna, Sweeney's relationship to her was very likely to come to light somewhere along the way, whether by chance or design…

Sweeney decided that, all in all, it would be best to disclose the truth now and be done with it.

He drew a deep breath – thinking fleetingly that this was just the kind of situation when he would feel Nellie's reassuring hand on his arm, silently encouraging him to do the hard thing that needed to be done. But her hands were resolutely wrapped around her whiskey glass, and she wasn't even so much as looking in his direction.

Without raising his eyes, Sweeney quietly said, "I'm her father."

Anthony went deathly still; even his breathing seemed to cease. The color drained from his face…an interminable time passed before his eyes clamped shut and he shook his head as if trying to clear it of a mental fog. "Her…her father..." he breathed.

Sweeney nodded.

"That…isn't possible…"

"She was Turpin's ward," Sweeney said.

Anthony made no reply, but only stared at the former barber as though he were a new species of exotic animal.

Sweeney started to realize just how much he was missing Nellie's calming touch at this point; but she remained stoically clutching her tumbler. So he went on, grinding out the words that resurrected the past that filled him with such loathing and caused his wife such agony, explaining that Turpin had sentenced him to exile as Benjamin Barker; violated his first wife, leading to her suicide (he thought Nellie's eyes flicked to him when he said that – but surely, there was no reason to go into unnecessary detail – no reason her mother's true fate should ever, _ever _make its way back to Johanna); adopted Barker's little girl. That everything Hope had witnessed of Fleet Street had as its end the destruction of Turpin in just retribution for these evils. "And ah…here we all are," Todd finished lamely, taking a now much-needed swig of the liquor in his hand.

Anthony had listened in rapt silence, and remained very quiet for a long while after Todd's voice had stilled. At last, he said, barely above a whisper: "You really had escaped from a prison colony when the _Bountiful_ rescued you."

Sweeney jerked his head tersely.

"And you…were innocent."

A dark, bitter mockery of laughter escaped Sweeney's throat in response.

"You're a murderer…because of what they did to you. And your wife, and your…daughter. And that's why you were so eager to help me back in London…you wanted her back again…"

Sweeney didn't bother answering anymore; he knew all this was only the young man's way of attempting to work out everything he'd just been told. All he said was "She can never know," with a stern glare in Hope's direction. After a moment, the lad nodded and muttered, "Yes…I agree…that would be for the best…I don't think she could – "

But he was cut off by the sound of the back door opening – Nellie's head shot up; Todd went stiff –

"I'm back, Mum," Toby called, as he carried two big sacks of flour, one under each arm, towards the counter. Preoccupied with his task, and not having a straight-on view of the table from his point of entry into the room, he obviously hadn't seen the small group at the table. After shooting Sweeney a worried glance, Nellie jumped up and began crossing the room to her son, saying "Toby – "

"I know you told me to just get one, but they had a special deal goin', one for half-price – "

"Toby dear, I need you to – "

"Went to the front, but it was locked up. Is everythin' all ri – "

That was when he turned fully, and saw Sweeney Todd face-on.

* * *

**A/N:** I SWEAR I'm not going to leave you hanging on this! I know exactly where I want to go from here, so the next update will not be long in coming. It's just that, if I continued with the logical result of this scenario, the chapter would become way too long and cumbersome. It needs to be split up. In the meantime, **please review** - I can't say enough how much it helps my writing! :)


	10. Inside

**Disclaimers:** See Prologue.

* * *

**9**

**Inside.**

Johanna awoke in darkness.

It was not absolute, however: soft, flickering yellow light suffused the space around her, so that, on turning her head – waves of nausea washing over her as she did so – she could see the outlines of the normal accoutrements of a bedchamber: red damask lined the walls, the symmetry of its patters broken only by two gas jets, one on either side of her. She was lying on a soft, comfortable bed, between spotless white sheets, and a warm comforter was pulled up to her chin. By the head of the bed was a night table, and on the table a kerosene lamp, lighted and burning low; and a large straight-backed chair stood in the far corner, by the door. A writing desk and matching chair completed the room's appointments.

Were it not for the absence of anything remotely resembling a window, Johanna might think herself a guest in a proper country manor.

Shifting a bit, her head still heavy from whatever drug Holmes had given her to render her unconscious, Johanna realized that her movements were far less restricted than her clothing should allow. Panic rose in her at the thought of what Holmes must have done, and she looked down at herself, slightly raising the comforter, and found that her dress had been removed and replaced with a simple, clean shift of white linen. She knew Holmes had done this; but she also knew – felt it physically – that he hadn't violated her while she'd been insensible. For that she was grateful – but strangely, the knowledge that he'd refrained from such an action, and had taken such care to make her comfortable in this room, gave her the feeling he was preparing her for something…_saving _her, as it were, for a horror she didn't care to contemplate.

She sat up – gingerly, lest her still-swimming head caused her to lose her balance – and paused until she felt the dizziness subside. She swung her feet over the side of the bed in the same manner, and by taking things in stages this way she was finally able to stand and take a few ponderous, unsteady steps towards the wall, extending her hands and feeling along its surface when she reached it. She wasn't sure what she was looking for – a hidden latch, a crack that might indicate a door sunk into the paneling – just anything at all that might prove an escape route. She was fairly certain that simply trying the door would not work; and after all, Holmes had managed to appear, suddenly and silently, in the last room. He couldn't have just materialized – he had to have some hidden means of entry; and Johanna was hoping that the room she was currently in had been designed along the same lines.

She was starting to feel extremely weak, and fought the desire to crawl back to the bed and sleep, when the door to the room opened in quite an ordinary fashion, and Holmes' silhouette appeared framed there.

"My dear!" he exclaimed, rushing into the room and catching her by the arm. "You shouldn't be out of bed! You've had quite the dose of sleeping draught, darling; you needed your rest." And he began drawing her towards him.

She tried to shift her weight backwards, struggling in the only way her physical weakness might allow; to no avail. Holmes was immensely strong…"Now, Johanna," he scolded, "I'm not going to have to give you another draught, am I? It can be dangerous, you know, in too many doses. Come along now, dearest, back to bed you go…"

Her strength exhausted itself then; her limbs gave out, and all possibility of even appearing to fight him was put to an end as he suddenly swept her up into his arms – Johanna's head reeling sickeningly as he did so – and deposited her on the bed once again. To her surprise and anxiety, he remained nearby and began fussing with something behind her head. Johanna couldn't see what he was doing; but a strange sound reached her ears, almost as if Holmes was tapping cables or piano wire behind the headboard. "You know, my dear," he was saying softly, "I do believe I've outdone myself this time. So much so, in fact, that I don't believe this idea was even mine. It was…_inspired_." He'd stopped whatever he'd been doing, and his eyes took on a faraway, dreamy aspect, staring not at Johanna, but at the opposite wall, as if he'd forgotten she was even there. "Yes," he went on, "inspired, by something far greater than I…" And his attention suddenly snapped back to Johanna as he leaned into her face and breathed, "Perhaps my _sponsor_ put the idea in my head, eh my dear?"

Johanna gave a feeble squirm, having no idea what he was talking about, only wanting to create distance between herself and those glittering eyes and bared teeth, as if he was about to devour her…

Holmes ran his fingertips over her face. "How I wish I could have taken my sweet Mrs. Marlowe…my beautiful dove…how I wish she could be the first…that I could possess the essence of her life as I'm about to possess yours…Perhaps someday…when the surgeon has been removed…"

With the speed of a striking viper, he threw himself on her and she shrieked, scrambling backwards vainly, her back pressed to the mattress and Holmes bearing down on her, unintelligible yowls tearing from his throat – but after a moment he was standing beside her again, red-faced and panting from his exertions…

Johanna, still screaming, threw herself back from him –

– and couldn't move. Holmes had fixed three straps right across her body, fastening her to the bed.

"For now," he went on, apparently continuing his thoughts about the surgeon's wife, "you'll do so very nicely…Johanna…"

She felt her mind slipping into darkness again, and fought it valiantly; but when she saw the needle in Holmes' hand, her senses utterly failed.

* * *

Nellie could only watch, aghast and helpless, as her boy's face twisted into something unrecognizable and he lunged forward – she reached out too late, her fingertips only grazing the back of his jacket; and before Todd could rise from his chair Toby was on him.

"_D'you know what you've done to her?!"_ he was screaming, his hands scrabbling for Todd's throat but only managing to grab hold of his collar, as the barber had seized his wrists at the last moment. The force of Toby's momentum as he crashed into Todd like a bullet sent them both tumbling to the floor, chair and all, Toby continuing to howl words Nellie didn't even know he'd ever heard before and Sweeney looking as shocked as she'd ever seen him as he struggled to fend off the lad's rage-fueled assault. She knew she ought to do something; but she was rooted to the floor, and couldn't seem to draw enough breath to tell them to stop.

At last, Todd got the upper hand, bringing his knees up and curving his back, flipping himself to the side, bringing Toby to the floor and pinning him. But the boy managed to get one hand free as Todd found his balance, and punched the barber square on the jaw, hard. Nellie heard the impact, saw Sweeney's head jolt, heard his feral growl, and her fear of what her husband might do in a flare of anger at being struck in this way jarred her into action. "God almighty, _enough of this!_" she cried; but they either didn't hear or ignored her. Just as she began moving towards them to attempt to physically pry them apart, she heard Sweeney's voice snarling:

"What d'you want, lad? Hey? Say it!"

"I want to kill you, you filthy bastard!"

A slow, poisonous smile spread across Todd's face as he softly rumbled, "That's what you want, is it? To _kill_ me? Like you done that bloke in Fall River, Toby?"

At the mention of that town, Toby went still as a corpse, his shadowed eyes wide. _"Sweeney!"_ Nellie gasped – barely audible; she could believe he honestly didn't hear her that time…

Slowly, carefully, Todd rose, leaving Toby staring up at him from the floor. Still grinning maliciously, the barber reached inside his jacket, pulled something out, and tossed it onto the boy's chest, where it hit one his shirt buttons and landed with a dull _clink_.

It was an ivory-handled razor – one of the set Nellie had given Sweeney shortly after he'd sold his precious silver knives to pay for their lodgings in Fall River.

Nellie was torn between horror at the increasing clarity of what Sweeney was doing, and a warm feeling that he would carry this, her gift to him, on his person.

"Come ahead, lad," Sweeney said, breaking her musings as he stretched out his arms and beckoned with his hands, essentially inviting Toby to use the razor on him. "Bit of poetic justice in it for you, hey? Do to me what I done to all those men? Kill me the same way I killed them? Come ahead."

Toby's face contorted into a terrible sneer as he got to his feet, taking the razor and opening it, slowly approaching Todd, who simply stood smirking. Nellie took a step forward, ready to end this before it turned even uglier – but Todd must have seen or felt her movement, because, without taking his eyes off Toby, he subtly raised his hand to her, signaling her to stop and let things unfold.

She decided to trust him.

Toby stopped, only two feet from the barber, and said, "You might as well have abandoned her. You…" His jaw clenched. "You piece of shit…might as well have abandoned _me_."

Sweeney's smile was softening. "Go on, lad," he said quietly. "Gotta be more."

"You…you almost died for us, Mr. Todd, in…and now…what the bleedin' hell…"

Toby's breath was coming faster, but his grip on the razor tightened until his knuckles turned white. "I'll kill you," he said; but Nellie could sense that his heart was no longer in the words.

"Go on then," Sweeney murmured calmly. "You want to know what it'll feel like when you do? It _will_ feel like power. Power like nothing you've ever dreamed. Watchin' a man's life drain away under your hand…yes, Tobias. You were right. That's power. And then when it's done the power will fade; but d'you know what won't fade? You know what'll stay with you? The reasons you did it. When I'm dead, I'll still have hurt your mother. And you, as you said. None of that will change. Killin' me won't take none of it away. It'll all hurt just as much tomorrow. Maybe more. And then you'll want to do it again, and again, and again, tryin' to make the pain go away, and it never will."

Toby was shaking now, positively quaking from head to foot, and Nellie could tell he was manfully fighting back tears. Suddenly, he let out a howl and lunged at Sweeney, holding the razor aloft and arcing it down, Nellie letting out a horrified shriek –

– Sweeney didn't even flinch as Toby flew past him, throwing himself against the wall, slamming the razor on the paneling, sobbing incoherent words.

And then Nellie thought she must be dreaming, as Sweeney went to the boy and – painfully hesitant – reached out and placed a hand on his back. He allowed some moments to pass, until Toby's frantic cries had somewhat subsided, before saying, "If it makes you feel any better, lad, what you done in Fall River weren't murder. Murder is killin' an unarmed man, cold-blooded like. What you done, that's called protectin' your family."

He caught Nellie's eye then, and slightly jerked his head, silently calling her to him. Unsteadily, reeling from what she'd just witnessed, she approached, keeping her eyes on Sweeney as she lay a hand on her son's shoulder and softly spoke his name. Instantly, Toby fell into her arms, letting the razor clatter to the floor, clutching onto her for dear life as he wept into her shoulder; and she smoothed his hair and soothed him and realized that for all his bravado and swagger and maturity, he was still only a young lad who longed for some peace.

A strange expression came over Sweeney's face as he watched them…if Nellie didn't know better, she'd call it longing, so strong it seemed – _if_ she didn't know better – there might be tears lurking just behind his eyes. After a time, he moved away; but as he passed, Nellie reached out and caught his sleeve, and he turned and looked at her, his eyes so full of sadness and resignation and tenderness and _love_ that she suddenly felt as if her heart might burst asunder from the beauty of it. She couldn't stand to keep touching him, but neither could she make herself let go, as she held his gaze and whispered "Thank you."

He nodded and took her hand, holding on for a long moment, and she could have sworn she felt him squeeze her fingers, just briefly, before gently disengaging them from his sleeve. He only took his eyes from her to stoop and pluck his barbering knife from the floor, then stalked off, muttering something about "bloody boy…ruin my blade…"

But while Nellie continued to comfort her son, she fought back tears of her own, the memory of her husband's warm jacket still filling her hand, wondering in spite of herself how much longer she'd be able to keep living so empty.

* * *

Mr. Todd was still a dirty rotten bastard.

True, his words had helped Toby clear his confused mind a great deal. The lad felt much better – _lighter_ – now that he knew his feelings on taking a man's life were perfectly normal, that someone else shared them and understood – that he wasn't alone. That he could accept his action and move on, without necessarily sinking into the black morass of hatred that had scabbed over his doubt and loathing of his own self. Just because he'd done it once didn't mean he was constrained to do it again. Or even could, necessarily.

But there was something else, besides Todd's words, besides Toby's respect for his mother's feelings, that had prevented him from plunging the razor into Todd's neck…Toby clenched his teeth and shook the thought away, not even allowing it to come too near the surface of his mind. Nothing could erase the fact that the barber had betrayed Toby's mother. So drastic was the situation in Toby's mind that he felt almost as though Todd had been actively carrying on with another woman; and he suspected that his mum must feel much the same way, though she kept her feelings close, never speaking of them. Toby sighed, thinking – not for the first time – of the suffering he'd witnessed his mother going through this past week, and pondering that if love caused all this anguish, it was certainly a terrible thing and he would do everything in his power to avoid it at all costs in future.

Still…whatever Todd had done, his daughter surely didn't deserve whatever Holmes had in mind for her. Accordingly, Toby found himself a willing participant in the plan that was cooked up around the table that morning, even volunteering to take what was, perhaps, the most dangerous job – amid the stringent protests of his mother, who initially only agreed if she could accompany him. But Mr. Todd had pointed out that if Holmes noticed anything at all out of the ordinary, he'd be bound to suspect something. "You need to stay here and mind the shop," he'd told her. "Make everything look normal, that's our best chance."

She didn't like it, and said so, adding, with a suspicious glance at her son, "Where'd you learn to do all this kind of thing, anyhow?"

The truth was that he'd picked up all manner of less-than-legal skills from his inmates at the workhouse, and had never forgotten them. In fact, they'd rather come in handy to escape the closet Pirelli locked him into on occasion. But all he told his mother was, "You learn to do all kinds of things when you're on your own."

She accepted this but continued voicing concerns about the plan in general, until stern insistence from Mr. Todd made her shake her head and give in, admitting the wisdom of the plan. It was then determined that Anthony Hope should hover around the hotel door, keeping a lookout for Toby's approach on the other side (assuming the lad would be able to progress that far), and all that remained was to carry things through. And so the lad equipped himself with one of his mother's hairpins as a lockpick, a paraffin candle and matches against his expectation of very likely needing to explore a cellar, and a paring knife for self-defense should the need arise; and was soon skirting around the block to approach Holmes' shop from the rear, prepared to break in by way of the druggist's storeroom. Toby knew that even now, Mr. Todd was in the front of the shop, conversing with Holmes about some drug purchases for his practice, providing a distraction. It was absolutely imperative that they know Holmes' whereabouts at all times as they tried to discover his hidden access to the hotel, and no one knew where he retired to at night – let alone the fact that none of them wanted to leave Johanna in her predicament, whatever it might be, any longer than could possibly be helped. So Mr. Todd would keep Holmes occupied and away from the back room, giving Toby at least some time to search.

Still, not a single moment could be lost. As his destination came into view, Toby swore under his breath – a heavy chain was looped through the door handle, secured by a padlock. Toby had been hoping for a simpler arrangement; but no matter – he strode to the door and reached into his jacket pocket, withdrawing the hairpin, working it carefully in the eye of the lock.

Only frustration ensued. After a full four minutes he was getting nowhere, and time was waning fast. Rather than waste any more, Toby stuffed the hairpin back in his pocket and looked about for some other possible means of entry. Amazingly, the entire wall was solid, unbroken except by the door, and…

And a little window immediately above.

Immediately on spotting this, Toby stretched up on his toes and reached his arm as high as he could – his fingertips just brushed the bottom of the windowpane. Not enough for him to get a hold and hoist himself up…Quickly, he whirled around, glancing about frantically for anything he might use to give himself a boost…there was nothing…

If he failed, they wouldn't get another chance until tomorrow at the earliest, and who knew what might happen to Mr. Todd's daughter by then, if Holmes was half as bad as Toby was beginning to suspect. Giving the door one more look, and drawing a deep, steeling breath, he rubbed his hands together and said "Right…"

Carefully, praying he wouldn't fall and break his skull open and trusting that his newly tall, lanky frame would allow him to achieve his plan, Toby gripped both protruding doorjambs and raised his left knee. Hopping a bit, lifting himself with his arms at the same time, he managed to work his foot between the layers of chain that secured the door, using the tight coils like a ladder, until he was able to position his left foot atop the door handle, leaving himself now semi-suspended, his right foot dangling helplessly and half his weight threatening to pull him back down again.

Not willing to give up his gain only to start over from scratch, Toby mustered every ounce of strength he possessed and, shifting his foot on the handle, raised himself up until his head nearly collided with the lintel. Now was the moment of truth…he took several more deep breaths, made sure to balance himself, and let go with his right hand –

He nearly fell, but grasped the transom just in time, unable to keep a small noise of terror from escaping his throat. When his heartbeat had somewhat steadied again, Toby pulled with his right hand and pushed with his left, managing in this way to straighten his body and just place his eyes even with the sill. Getting a better grip on the jamb with his left hand, he reached up with the other and pushed on the glass –

Nothing.

_Bloody thing must open outwards,_ he thought...His left arm was outright trembling now, from supporting so much of him…With one last effort, he cautiously reached back into his jacket, took out the hairpin, and jimmied it under the window's frame, working it back and forth until, at last, the bottom of the window popped outwards with a low scraping noise – a hair's breadth, just enough for him to dig his fingertips in and pull; and he swiftly drew the pane towards him and thrust his arm through the window, hooking his elbow around the sill just as the chain shifted below his foot and the handle dropped away from him –

His legs were suddenly dangling free; but he had a fast grip on the sill and he painfully pulled himself through the window, trying to turn about so he'd land on his feet but failing and falling with a heavy thud to the storeroom floor, half on his back, unable to stifle a strangled cry at the impact.

_Shit!_ he berated himself – Holmes had certainly heard all this racket…and sure enough, muffled voices instantly reached Toby's ears, and footsteps were heading his way…

"What on earth was all that?" Holmes' voice was saying, no longer with his typical dapper carelessness but nervous now, agitated. "Sounded like someone broke in the back door!"

"Surely not, sir," came Mr. Todd's calm tones. "I'm certain you take every precaution…"

Toby scrambled to his feet, no worse for his tumble, and looked frantically about. He'd succeeded in breaching Holmes' storeroom, all right: boxes and crates were neatly arranged on rows and rows of shelves and stacked against the walls throughout the room. It shouldn't be hard to hide amongst all this storage – but Holmes knew this place. Toby didn't.

The footsteps grew louder, closer; Holmes saying "I'm sure you'll just wait a moment while I check, Dr. Marlowe – " the door was opening –

Time was out. Randomly choosing an alleyway between a freestanding shelf and the wall at his right, Toby dove into the space and hurtled through it, hardly even realizing that he was descending steps until he was safely tucked into what appeared to be a cellar entrance, a once-white door standing at the bottom of the steps.

God or Fate or Someone was looking after him, he thought, because this was exactly what he'd been hoping to find.

Flattening himself against the wall and edging closer to the door, Toby prayed like mad that Holmes wouldn't investigate this far, as he listened, his heart drumming a barbaric tattoo against his ribs, to the sound of the druggist's slow, deliberate steps entering the storeroom. To his surprise and reluctant gratitude, he heard another step as well, and recognized it as Mr. Todd's heavy tread. If only he could get to the door…

* * *

Nellie was beside herself.

Sweeney had made sense with his idea that she stay visible in the shop; but she wondered. She couldn't concentrate on her work, her eyes wouldn't stop wandering to the clock; and she repeatedly berated herself for being a bad mother. _Letting my boy into a place like that all alone…that man could talk me into anything at all…_

By "that man" she meant, of course, her husband; and she brushed aside the intrusive thought that it was typically _she_ who talked _him_ into things. Then she cast him from her mind altogether, with an effort, and resumed fretting over her son.

An anxious glance out the window showed her that Sweeney was still in Holmes' shop, smiling and resting his hand companionably on the druggist's shoulder. Holmes himself was looking rather tense and aggravated, from what she could see, rocking back and forth on his heels and nodding distractedly.

Then they both jumped, their heads snapping simultaneously to the storeroom door.

As if they'd heard something back there.

Nellie went cold.

Holmes looked back to Sweeney – held up one finger, as though telling him to wait – and hurried towards the back room.

"Sweet Jesus," Nellie breathed, thankful for the current lull in custom, allowing herself to indulge in her panic. She lost sight of Holmes; Sweeney immediately took off after the man, struggling, she knew, to keep his gait and manner casual. She saw his back as he lingered in the storeroom door…too long…

"God in _heaven_," she muttered; and, able to stand it no longer, fled from the shop and hurried across the street…

* * *

"I see nothing amiss, Mr. Holmes," Toby heard Mr. Todd say.

But Holmes' feet were coming further and further into the room. Toby stopped moving completely, only turning his head to look up the stairwell, not sure he wanted to see what was coming but perversely needing to –

And there, creeping up the wall directly across from Toby, was Holmes' shadow, advancing toward the stairs…and as the lad's eyes traveled past the lengthening silhouette, horror bloomed in his chest at the sight of the still-open window above the back door.

_Don't see it…don't see it…please, God, don't let him notice…_

Mr. Todd's distinctive footfalls began again, lighter and quicker now, approaching where Holmes was standing. "Anything out of place, Mr. Holmes?"

There was a pause before the druggist answered, his voice wary. "No…no, I…must have been mistaken. Perhaps one of the boxes fell…" And the shadow retreated, accompanied by Holmes' hasty steps out of the room.

"Good then," said Todd, his gruff voice gradually fading as he left the room in Holmes' company. "Perhaps we can continue our conversation without further interruption. I am most curious as to your opinion on the proper dosage of laudanum for…"

Then the storeroom door was closed, and silence descended.

Toby let out the breath he'd been very consciously holding, trying to pull his wits together. He'd taken too long as it was; certainly Mr. Todd wouldn't be able to hold Holmes off much longer…Toby turned his attention to the paint-scarred door, and tried the handle. Locked – he might have known. Realizing that his precious hairpin must have fallen in his adventure with the window, and hoping it had fallen on the _inside_, he cautiously – trembling – made his way back up the stairs and cast a glance to the outside door. There, lying on the floor, was the pin, bent now from its use on the window but still serviceable to jimmy a lock; and he heaved a sigh as he speedily scampered to retrieve it.

This lock was much more manageable than the padlock, giving under his hand in less than ten seconds. _"Yes!"_ he hissed when he heard and felt the telltale slipping of the ancient mechanism, elated that he'd nearly accomplished his goal…Tucking the faithful pin back into the safety of his pocket, he opened the door and stepped over the threshold.

Blackness beyond what Toby had ever imagined met his eyes. Leaving the door open a bit for light, he took from his pocket the thick paraffin taper and matches, and in a moment he had his own light source. He shut the door, and examined his surroundings.

He was standing in a small room, probably intended as a storage cellar but empty except for a few barrels. And there, just opposite, was another door.

This one wasn't locked.

Toby slipped through this last door and found himself in a tight passageway, its walls and low, arched ceiling lined with brick, its floor of hard, packed dirt, the only illumination coming from the small, quavering candle flame. This must be it…the passage Holmes used to travel back and forth from the hotel to his shop. It was probably meant as a way to cart supplies between the two buildings, avoiding the busy street and inclement weather…Toby congratulated himself heartily on his success as he trooped briskly down the passage, trying not to think too much about what he might find at the end…

* * *

Sweeney's eyes went wide with shock and anger, his jaw pulsing from the grinding of his teeth, when he saw Nellie standing at Holmes' front counter. Holmes, however, coming along just behind, cried "Ah, the lovely Mrs. Marlowe!" with a gleaming grin; but Nellie didn't miss the edge to his voice. Something had indeed happened, and she knew in her heart it had to do with Toby.

She forced herself to be calm. If Holmes had discovered the boy, he'd likely be dragging him out here by the ear, and Sweeney would be profusely apologizing for his young charge's delinquent behavior, promising a sound whipping at home. None of this was happening, and Nellie felt the tension leave her somewhat.

All the remained was to deal with Sweeney, and he was far from pleased to see her.

She met his glower with a cheerful "Hello, dear. Fancy seeing you here."

"Yes," he replied through his teeth. "Fancy."

Holmes was darting his eyes back and forth between the two of them with obvious interest.

"What are you doin' here, _darlin'_?" Sweeney asked, a dangerous sneer on his face.

"I just came in to see if Mr. Holmes had any bicarbonate of soda about the place," she lied flawlessly. "I'm runnin' low and don't fancy goin' all the way to market today."

Holmes beamed and bustled behind his counter, where he instantly found a large box of the stuff and handed it her with an oily smile, insisting that she not pay.

"No," Sweeney snarled, "I won't hear of it," as he produced his wallet and blindly stuffed some bills into Holmes' hand. A harrowing look passed over the druggist's face, as if he meant to flay Todd alive by the sheer hatred in his eyes; but the barber-surgeon met him with equal intensity, and in the end it was Holmes who backed down, muttering "I believe our discussion is done Doctor. A pleasant day to you both."

Sweeney grasped Nellie's elbow, inclining his head to Holmes as he turned and steered her out the door.

"What the _bloody hell_ did you think you were _doing_, Nell?!" he growled as they crossed 63rd Street. "You could've – "

She cut him off to explain that she'd seen the two men head into the storeroom and suspected trouble, finishing with "What the hell happened, anyhow?"

"Heard a bloody great crash in the back room."

"Oh, God…"

"When we got there, we didn't find anything. I don't know what happened exactly, but I do know Toby weren't to be seen."

She sighed, her fears finally allayed. "I only hope that was enough time."

Sweeney didn't answer. She could feel the fury in him, knotting his muscles, making his fingers too tight around her arm.

"What did you expect me to do?" she said breathlessly. "It's my son, Sweeney – "

"Did you think I wouldn't be able to handle it, Nellie?"

"No, I – "

"Did you think I'd just allow the bloody bastard to find out what was goin' on?"

"Sweeney – "

"It might be your son at stake, but it's my daughter, too, Nell. Try to remember that."

They'd reached the bakery door, and Nellie entered first, muttering "Not like I could ever forget."

Sweeney hovered in the doorway, his brows knit. "What's that you said?"

But from the look on his face, and the raspy tone of his voice, she could tell he'd heard her very well indeed.

"Nothin'," she said, smiling with false cheerfulness. "Nothin' at all."

* * *

Toby made uneventful progress through the dank, murky passage. It felt to him as if he'd already walked a mile, and he devoutly hoped he hadn't embarked on the wrong route and was even now heading towards the docks or somewhere else in the city…

He had no way of knowing how much time had passed before he finally arrived at the end, coming up against another door, this one made of unvarnished wood with metal studs and a lock with an eye that seemed to require a rather large skeleton key. For the first time, Toby grew anxious that he'd come to the end of his journey. And if he couldn't get through here, he'd have to backtrack to Holmes' cellar and storeroom, and he wasn't sure he'd be able to get back up to the window from the inside…

"Come on, Ragg," he chided himself aloud, his quiet mutter resounding like a shout in this dark, cramped, silent space. "Get a hold of yourself…"

Of course the obvious option was to try the hairpin again. This Toby did; but this lock proved difficult, and the hairpin was too small…

"Come _on_," he snarled, fishing for the catch…

It wasn't working. And Toby knew it wasn't ever _going_ to work.

At last, he cursed bitterly, threw the hairpin to the ground, and began uselessly kicking the door, over and over and over, until, solid as it appeared, it actually began rattling on its hinges.

The hinges…

Toby stopped his attack on the door and stood, staring. He was on the hinged side of the door.

Slowly, as if in a dream, he reached into his jacket pocket, his hand closing around the handle of the paring knife he'd taken from the kitchen, expecting perhaps to need to use it on Holmes if he was discovered.

He'd likely ruin the blade, he knew this; but it was the only choice he had…

Grinning, he set the candle on the dirt floor and leaned it against the brick wall to free up both hands, and went to his task, working the knife's edge into the joint just below the bulbous top of the uppermost hinge – the ceiling was so low, and the door necessarily so short, that Toby had no trouble reaching the hardware. It was a long, grueling process; but at last he succeeded in removing the pin. The bottom hinge followed, and with a satisfied grunt, Toby pressed his whole body against the door with all his might, digging his heels into floor –

The door gave; Toby lost his balance and went tumbling to the floor, landing in a wide open space, the damp odor of mildew rushing in on him. His candle had guttered out – he supposed he must have kicked it as he shoved the door from the frame. He looked about on the floor for a bit before spotting it, and reached out and picked it up –

Then he realized he was _seeing_ the candle – he'd been able to find it; he was no longer in total darkness.

He raised his head as he stuffed the taper back into his jacket pocket for possible future use. Yes – gaslight was sputtering around him; and he cast a glance about, trying to get his bearings.

Then he stopped breathing.

He'd made it to Holmes' cellar. And it was so much worse than any of them had even dared to imagine.

Toby forced himself to move forward – he had to get out of here, had to find the way up into the hotel, had to let the others in so they could work together to save Mr. Todd's daughter.

If she was still alive.

Because, Toby thought as he paced slowly along, striving to walk the fine line between searching for the exit and averting his eyes from the sights that surrounded him…compared to H.H. Holmes, Mr. Todd was a proper bloody saint.

* * *

Nellie was at her counter, continuing to "make things look normal"; and her husband was in the kitchen enjoying another whiskey. She tried not to think too hard about it – this distance, growing greater every moment. It hurt beyond measure to know that he was just the other side of the kitchen door, and they weren't speaking, couldn't even be in the same room.

Perhaps it was time…she missed him so intensely, a hollowness beyond anything she'd ever experienced, as if she'd lost her right arm. Perhaps she should just swallow her pride, pretend nothing ever happened, and –

"Mrs. Lovett!"

She started at the voice – it was Anthony, hobbling through the shop door with a terribly anxious expression. "What is it?" she breathed.

"The door," he replied. "I think Toby made it – "

In less than a blink she was telling him to lock the door and hastening through the kitchen, where Sweeney was sitting gazing out the window. But he wasn't as lost as he appeared – he looked up instantly when Nellie entered the room. She only had to glance at him – he read her expression and rose, following her out the back door, Anthony coming behind.

When the three rounded the corner, trying to move fast so Holmes wouldn't spot them, Anthony raised his fist and knocked once on the hotel entrance.

Nothing happened for a moment.

Then the knob turned, and the door swung open, revealing a haggard-looking Toby, blinking against the sunlight.

Anthony, being closest, slipped in first, followed by Nellie, who swept her son into a tight embrace, speechless with relief that he'd made it and was all right. But her elation shortly gave way to concern – he was tense and stiff and unresponsive…

When Sweeney had entered, he shut the door and re-locked it, sealing them into the small, dim foyer. The stairs to the second floor loomed just ahead, ascending into a deeper darkness.

"Did you see Johanna?" Sweeney asked; and Nellie couldn't suppress the pang she felt at the plea in his voice she knew he wished he could hide.

Toby shook his head. "Mr. Todd…I think…you need to…"

His voice trailed off into the musty air, thick as dust.

"Go on," Sweeney urged.

Toby swallowed hard. "It…it's bad, Mr. T…"

"Bad? What d'you mean?"

"I think…I think she might be gone…"

The muscles of Sweeney's face seemed to seize up in anguish. "What the _bleedin' hell_ are you talkin' about, boy?!"

Toby hesitated before answering, earning a harsh _"Speak up!"_ from Todd.

"I think…she might be k-killed…just like everyone else."

Nellie didn't think. She didn't consciously move forward and reach out her hand and place it on her husband's pale cheek; she wasn't thinking when she locked her eyes on his, silently telling him to calm himself, that it would be all right, that _Johanna _would be all right. That she, Nellie, was there for him. That they would get through this together.

She wasn't thinking about Johanna, or Lucy, or the past. Her only concern was for him.

It was second nature, really. So instant, so instinctive.

She felt his rage lessen, saw his eyes soften as he held her gaze; his anger was giving way to grief even as she watched. "Nell," he breathed, his head slowly shaking back and forth.

"Shh, hush love," she soothed, stroking his cheekbone with her thumb. After a time, she lowered her hand, opened his jacket, and reached inside, delving into the inner pocket, finding the razor she now knew he kept there. She took it out, took his hand in hers, and placed the folded knife in his palm, closing his fingers around it.

Strength seemed to flow back into him, filling him up, brightening his eyes; he set his jaw, his determination returning. And for that one moment, that one fleeting instant Nellie knew wouldn't last, things were as they should have been.

But it passed all too quickly, and she turned away, trying to collect herself. She cleared her throat, painfully aware of Toby's and Anthony's eyes on her as she headed to the stairs and resolutely began to climb, saying "Now then. Let's go and find your little girl."

* * *

**A/N: **Well, I'm glad you all didn't cyber-kill me after leaving you with that cliffie last time...I hope this chapter made up for it...

Hope you liked, even though it was rather long. Re. Anthony calling Nellie "Mrs. Lovett", that was intentional on my part and will be brought up again in the next chapter.

Speaking of which, the next chapter might be a while in coming, as school work is starting to get heavy with papers and such...In the meantime, **please review**! Thanks for reading! :)


	11. Inferno

**Disclaimers:** See Prologue.

**A/N:** Thanks as always to all who read, review, and subscribe! This chapter is sort of transitional...

* * *

**10  
**

**Inferno.**

They had decided to split up.

When they'd reached the head of the stairs, they were faced with a decision to explore the corridor stretching out in front of them, or the one branching off to their left. They'd determined that they could easily and quickly cover both territories by pairing off. Toby had instantly claimed Nellie as his partner; and Nellie herself had suggested that Anthony should go with Sweeney, since the former sailor was still recovering from his prior injuries and should anything untoward occur, the barber-surgeon would be well placed to look after the lad.

But Sweeney didn't fancy the idea of Nellie and Toby being on their own. He knew that his wife could take care of herself, and the boy had certainly proved his mettle more than once in the recent past. Still…Toby had given quite a desperate impression of Holmes' capabilities by his cryptic reaction to the cellar he'd passed through; and Sweeney was troubled by the thought of not being present to defend Nellie if anything were to go amiss. Before he was aware of words leaving his mouth, he heard his own voice saying "I think my wife should come with me."

The ensuing silence was sepulchral, broken only by Toby letting out a huff through his nose. Sweeney couldn't suppress a smirk as he practically felt the pink flush of awkward indignation rising in Nellie's face, only because he knew her so well, the heat of consternation coming off her in a wave. For once she was speechless; but Sweeney couldn't tell if her tongue was tied from being angry, embarrassed, or flattered. Perhaps a combination of the three. He'd forgotten how he used to enjoy seeing her so flustered at his hands.

Anthony, meanwhile, was glancing back and forth between the two of them, brows knit. "Your…your wife," he said. "Oh. Of course. I hadn't realized you were _married_. I thought you were merely…ahm," he trailed off delicately.

"That surprise you, lad?" said Sweeney.

"Er, well no, I only – "

"Thought we weren't capable of the higher sentiments, did you?"

Then Anthony's face went dark, and without hesitation he answered, "Yes. After what I saw in London...no one who can do something like that could possibly possess any shred of human feeling."

They glared daggers at each other for another moment, before Nellie jumped in with "Enough of this now, we've got a job to do here," her voice a bit higher pitched than usual. "Now who's goin' with who?"

"I wouldn't dream of interfering with you both," said Anthony sincerely, while Toby stood by with a clenched jaw. "It's clear you ought to be together. Tobias and I will be all right on our own."

Said Tobias, meanwhile, was boring into Sweeney with his eyes in a silent warning.

"Right, that's settled," Sweeney determined, and without another word he grasped Nellie's arm and headed down the corridor straight ahead, leaving Hope and Toby to the other.

They walked in silence for a time, Nellie maintaining a chilly quiet. He couldn't understand her. When she'd touched his face that way, and put the razor in his hand…he'd thought she was warming up to him again. But by the time they'd reached the top of the stairs, it was as if nothing had passed between them. Then again, she didn't need to say a word for him to know what she was thinking. He could tell she was fuming at him for demanding their partnership, forcing them together when she wished to continue avoiding him, avoiding the matter between them that remained unresolved. That was all right. For now, her presence alone would have to suffice.

There was a closed door on the right. Instantly on spotting it, Sweeney put his hand on the knob, fully expecting resistance. But it turned in his hand.

His surprise registered in hesitation, and Nellie caught it. "What is it?"

"Not locked," he answered quietly. When she didn't respond, he added, "I think Mr. Holmes was expecting us."

He pushed the door open slowly, revealing a darkened room, the gaslight from the hallway penetrating the gloom just enough to show an ordinary hotel guest chamber. Tentatively, Sweeney stepped inside; but there was no trace of the room having been occupied, and he returned to the hall.

"Not discouraged after only one room, are you?" said Nellie gently, reacting to his deep frown; but he ignored her and continued down the corridor, hearing her footsteps close behind.

They came to the end of the hall, another guest room on the right and a jog in the passage to the left. This they followed, and found themselves in a large, empty room with four other doors leading off of it. In a silent agreement, they each went to a door and flung it wide – Nellie discovering only a black, empty closet. But Sweeney's door had opened onto a small alcove, with a metal slab, about five and a half feet long, set into the wall at the far end. Only about two feet of space opened above it, making it rather like a large built-in shelf.

"Nellie, come and have a look at this."

He entered the small space, examining it as well as he could, the gaslight not reaching in very well. Just as Nellie appeared at his side, he discovered a lever set into the left-hand wall. He reached out for it, disregarding Nellie's _"Wait!"_ –

The slab moved with a mechanical groan, descending into depths of darkness below until, after a time that seemed far too long, the dull thud of its landing reached their ears.

Slowly, Sweeney turned to Nellie and murmured, "Strange place for a dumbwaiter."

Her eyes were wide. "That's no regular lift what guests would use."

"No…"

"What the hell is he movin' with this?"

"That's what I'd like to know. You've been here all along, just downstairs. What d'_you_ think's been goin' on?"

She shook her head. "Thought he might be runnin' some kind o' bordello up here, but it don't look that way, does it?"

Sweeney responded with his own head shake and a long sigh, before turning back to the lever and switching it the other way. Accordingly, the lift began its upward journey.

He regarded it appreciatively. "Why couldn't we have thought o' somethin' like this?" he said absently.

"What, you mean back on Fleet Street?"

He nodded, keeping his eyes on the rising lift.

"Oh, now," Nellie replied. "You did a proper job with what you had to work with, riggin' up that trap door and all. It was all very impressive, really."

At first he thought he was imagining the wistfulness in her voice; but then, to his amazement, she chuckled softly.

"What?" he asked.

But she cleared her throat and said "Nothin'," turning and leaving the alcove.

That wouldn't do. Sweeney had always hated it when she seemed to possess a secret joy he knew nothing about. "Tell me," he demanded, following her.

Back in the gaslight now, he could see the thin smile on her face as she answered. "Nothin', really. I was just thinkin' about the first time I saw what you done up there."

And then he very nearly smiled as well, because he remembered it too, all too clearly. She'd stormed into his shop in the middle of the night, awakened by the racket he'd been making as he made a deathtrap of the chair she'd given him for his barbering, shouting _"What in the bleedin' HELL_ _are you doin' to my property?!"_ But when he'd shown her the trap door and what he'd done to the chair, she'd stood amazed, a hand over her heart, breathing _"Oh, Mr. Todd…" _as if he'd just presented her with two dozen roses, or swept her into his arms and whispered sweet nothings into her ear. Well, there weren't any roses; but the second possibility was quite within reach. It was only earlier that day, after all, that he'd begun seeing her so differently, that he'd waltzed with her and tumbled helplessly into her eyes and kissed her…and he was so full of dark energy and pride and anticipation of the future from completing his work on the chair…So he'd crossed to her in a bound and seized her in a bear-like embrace, saying _"Careful not to fall in, pet…who would make my tea then?"_ and as his lips began drifting over hers she'd replied, _"You can rig up all this and you can't make your own cup of tea?..."_ and then they'd both stopped speaking…

"…if my poor Albert could've known what you'd done to his chair," Nellie was saying, her smiling voice pulling Sweeney out of the depths of his memory.

He realized from her tone that she was recalling this episode with fondness, and latched onto the opportunity. "And d'you remember what happened after I showed you all that?" he asked, his voice soft as he approached her.

She went quiet, and the smile vanished. "Please don't."

"Why not?"

"Because…"

Then her eyes lifted to his, and he _knew_ she was remembering, every detail: how desperate she'd been, telling him how long she'd waited, how long she'd loved him, unable to keep it inside, crying out his name over and over, hardly sated when it was done, still starving for his touch.

She looked away, muttering "Because we don't have time for this," heading for the door at the far end of the room.

She was right, of course; and Sweeney silently berated himself for allowing his thoughts of her to distract him from his purpose. They moved along a short passage until, after only a few yards, they came up against a closed-in area with an open archway on the left. Sweeney peered into it, finding another glut of doors clustered around a tiny central hall. Here, the gaslight waned somewhat, and Sweeney suddenly realized that, foolishly, they hadn't thought to bring any lamps or candles in their haste to enter the building. Automatically, he patted his torso, reached into his pockets, knowing he'd find nothing.

"What is it, love?" Nellie asked. He wondered if she was even aware of the term of endearment that fell from her lips so smoothly.

"Matches," he mumbled, giving up his search and stepping through the archway. When he felt Nellie follow him and come to his side, he unthinkingly placed a protective hand on the small of her back; and she tensed, but didn't pull away.

He randomly reached for one of the many doors, and it yielded. He had no way of telling what lay beyond: only pitch blackness met his eyes.

Something told him they were coming closer to finding out what Holmes was up to.

His hand slipped from Nellie's back to her own hand, which he grasped tightly, saying "Stay right with me"; and she nodded. Together they entered the room, leaving the door open to allow the light, feeble though it was, to enter as much as possible. As his eyes adjusted to the murk, Sweeney reached out and placed his free hand against the wall – it was smooth and cold. He rapped on it with one knuckle.

"The walls are made of _metal_," he said. "Metal?" Nellie repeated incredulously; but he barely heard her as he attempted to work out what this meant. He ran his hand along the wall's surface, encountering a gritty substance, like very fine dirt…

"Sweeney?" came Nellie's voice again; but he'd let go her hand and was heading back to the door, to the light, examining his palm, finding it coated with black soot.

A terrible picture began forming in his mind…He turned to his wife, about to grab hold of her hand again and lead her from the room –

– just before the door slammed shut with a deep, harsh _clang_, so close it nearly struck him off his feet.

Nellie's yelp of shock resounded off the metal walls in the blackness.

"_Nell!"_ The cry possessed a frantic quality, not like his voice at all.

"Yes…"

"Are you all right?"

He heard the tremor in her voice, her ragged breathing, as she answered "Yes. Damn thing startled me, is all."

They were now sealed in absolute obscurity, the door cutting off even the small glow of gaslight that had previously managed to seep in. Sweeney stretched out his hand. "Come towards me," he said. "Follow my voice."

Then he stopped talking.

"And how am I supposed to do that, exactly?..."

He sighed. "For God's sake…all right, just…come towards my voice, I'll keep talkin'…"

He heard her step towards him tentatively. "Ahh…just…I'm right over here."

"Oh, that's rivetin' stuff, that is."

"I can shut up altogether and let you wander around the room bangin' your pretty head against these metal walls, if that's what you'd rather – "

That seemed to do it. He cut off with a harsh grunt as the flat of her outstretched hand slammed into his chest, followed by her small voice muttering "sorry…"

Getting his wind back, he took her hand and said "All right. Let's not separate again."

Too late did he realize the double meaning of his words, and his wife's silence made it difficult for him to know whether she caught it as well. They hadn't been this close since their estrangement a week ago: she was only a breath away now, and he was holding her hand and she was holding his; and despite the circumstances, the fact that he was alone with her in a dark room was beginning to sink in. He couldn't focus on his goal like this; he ought to be looking for a way out of this blasted room…He was beginning to think he should have accompanied Anthony after all.

Keeping a tight hold on Nellie's hand, he turned and shuffled forward, reaching his unoccupied hand before him to avoid colliding with a wall. He was fairly certain he was now heading in the right direction for the door…but he was walking too far; the door had been only just behind him, it shouldn't be taking this long...

"Sweeney, where the bloody hell are you goin'?"

He smiled in the darkness. "Why are you whisperin'?"

"Well" – he could tell he'd gotten her miffed with his question – "no tellin' who might hear us in this place, hey? For all we know Holmes is watchin' us right now."

"I think he's known we've been here all along, pet." The name slipped out; but she didn't protest. "And I'm lookin' for the door, to answer your question."

"Don't think that's gonna do us much good," she scoffed. "Probably locked on us soon as it closed."

God, she was exasperating. "Well, unless you have any other suggestions, I say we – "

But suddenly he was pitching forward, lurching through the blackness, his foot caught on what felt like a tree root, and because of his iron grip on her hand Nellie was falling with him –

He tried to catch himself with his other foot, but that only threw him more off-balance and they both crashed to the floor hard, Sweeney striking his cheek on the unforgiving floor with a nasty _crack_.

Nellie, cushioned by landing half on top of him, was already struggling to sit up, breathing "God, Sweeney, you all right?" and grasping his arms, helping him to right himself.

He nodded, then remembered she wouldn't be able to see this and grudgingly said "Yeah, fine. You?"

She didn't respond. Her hands were fluttering up his arms, across his shoulders, along his neck, coming to rest on the sides of his face; and suddenly she gasped. "I think you're bleedin', love. Right here," she said softly, stroking his left cheek.

Her touch stung – he flinched, and knew he'd split his face open. "Not much we can do about that just now. I'm more concerned about what caused me to stumble. Here," he said, taking her hand and guiding it to his shoulder. "Hold on to my waistcoat, I do not want to lose you in here."

She accordingly gathered the fabric in her fist and the two of them crawled together towards the spot – Sweeney hoped – where he'd lost his footing. They hadn't gone far before his fingertips brushed something coarse, like clothing; and as he rubbed it between his fingers, trying to figure out exactly what it was, it fell apart in his hand. He groped along, the material crumbling under his examination, until at last he felt the hardness of bone…an arrangement of angled, parallel slats…

His hands were on a desiccated human ribcage.

Nellie must have felt his pause, because she said something Sweeney didn't quite absorb. In fact, he was barely aware of her presence at all as his hands continued traveling along this corpse – for such it obviously was – up towards the shoulders, the neck, his fingers digging into the flesh that flaked off in his hands like charred paper…

The unthinkable, the unbearable, gripped his heart, sent his stomach plummeting through his suddenly-hollow legs.

"No," he breathed, grasping at the face now, clawing at it, and it was coming to pieces, crackling horribly in his ears –

"No," he cried, his voice stronger now, repeating the word over and over and over as he tried to gather up the scorched remains but they only slipped away from him, clattering to the floor and scattering like so many dead autumn leaves…Nellie's voice was calling him but he didn't care, he only kept screaming the word _No_ louder and louder, almost keening it…

"_Johanna!"_

Quaking violently, his mind blinded with grief and fury, Sweeney could only roar incoherently, the body crumbling to dust in his hands, oblivious to everything but the memory of a photograph he'd destroyed long ago.

* * *

Anthony was growing tired, and the pain was coming back.

He ought to take his laudanum, he knew this; but he'd had a quantity of alcohol and was fairly certain the two would not mix well. Lumbering about on his crutches was proving to be exhausting work; but he couldn't turn back. He'd made his wife a promise, and he'd been unable to keep it. All he could do now was try to correct that lapse, and pray that his efforts wouldn't be too little, too late.

He thought for a moment of Mr. Todd – surely he must know that Anthony wasn't in the best physical condition, currently, to go about in a potentially dangerous situation. Yet he hadn't said a word, hadn't tried to prevent Anthony from assisting in the search, hadn't told him to go home and rest and wait for news. Perhaps he'd known there'd be no stopping the former sailor even if he had forbidden him.

Or perhaps Todd had understood Anthony's feelings first-hand.

_Her father…_

It still didn't seem possible. Life was simply not that serendipitous. It was like a cheap melodrama. But Anthony couldn't help the strange twinge of confusion in his mind – the sense that kept telling him Sweeney Todd actually possessed a human heart. And it wasn't only Johanna: Anthony had seen the way Todd had handled the boy, Tobias – who was currently ambling along at the sailor's side, glancing warily through the open doorways along the corridor. Anthony of course had no idea what the background of the situation was; but it was obvious that Todd cared for the boy, although his manner of showing it was rough and brusque. And it was obvious too that he loved his wife – even Anthony, who was typically oblivious to these sorts of things unless they involved him directly, had noticed the way they looked at each other, the way they seemed to unconsciously gravitate towards each other.

Anthony shook his head. He'd seen much of the world and the people in it, thought he'd really gotten quite good at judging a person's character. That he could size up pretty much anyone with a good degree of accuracy. And then along came the most confusing Mr. and Mrs. Sweeney Todd.

An anxious pang blossomed in his chest as he remembered he'd eventually have to render an account to the British authorities. It had been clear from the day he and Johanna had left London that they – or at least Anthony – would be called back to testify to what they'd witnessed on Fleet Street. And now he knew where Todd and his accomplice were. And telling the truth would send Johanna's own father to his death.

Anthony wondered whether he could do that to his beloved. Even if she didn't know, if she _never_ knew. Could he condemn his wife's only family – and a man who clearly loved her so much – to destruction?...

He wasn't sure if it was the mental stress of this eventuality or the physical exertion, but a violent coughing fit suddenly overcame him, and he stopped mid-stride.

The boy, Tobias, looked over at him. "Oi, Mr. Hope," he said, brow knit. "You all right?"

Anthony nodded, struggling to get his breathing under control; but he continued to tremble, the episode leaving him weak.

"I think you should maybe get back to the stairs," Tobias said. "Come on…"

"No!" Anthony protested, his vehemence bringing on another coughing spell. When it had subsided enough for him to get his breath, he said feebly, "I must find my wife."

"Mr. and Mrs. Todd and me've got that covered, we'll take care of it – "

But Anthony only shook his head more strenuously. "No…I made her a promise. I can't just sit by and…No, Tobias. I have to go on for her sake."

The boy nodded. The coughing had intensified the pain that previously had only been nagging at him; but Anthony resolutely determined not to take the tincture of opium that rested in his breast pocket. He needed all his wits about him now, and the whiskey he'd consumed earlier had already fogged his thinking too much in his opinion.

They walked on together, each glancing through doorways into rooms that showed no sign of Johanna. Anthony finally sighed in exasperation and said, "Maybe he's got her in another part of the building…"

"Not the cellar."

Tobias' response seemed a bit too quick. "Right…you'd have seen her, wouldn't you?"

The boy shrugged. "There were…other rooms down there…but I don't think she's there."

"Why do you say that?"

"You just don't want to be goin' down there, all right?"

Something about that cellar obviously upset the boy; but Anthony let the matter drop, because if they didn't find Johanna up here, the cellar would be an absolutely necessary destination anyway. Even if he had to go on his own...

But his thoughts were interrupted – suddenly, blessedly – by the shrill sound of a woman's frantic cries issuing from the end of the hall.

"_Johanna!"_ Anthony shouted – though he knew it wasn't her voice – and propelled himself as well as he could down the corridor, Tobias at his heels. Following the sound, they rounded a corner to find an open door giving onto a black room, so small there was only room enough for one person to stand – and huddled against the wall, a young, dark-haired woman, terror in her eyes.

Anthony pulled up short, causing Tobias to run into his back and sending racking pain through him once again. But he was so focused on the woman that he didn't allow himself to give in. He stretched out his hand and said, "Come on. We'll help you."

She shook her head fiercely. "You're from _him_…"

"No, no we're not. We're here to find someone he's taken. Her name is Johanna; she has golden hair. Have you seen her?"

The woman shook her head again, more slowly, as if trying to think.

Anthony's heart sank. Still, they could help this woman…"Come to me," he repeated.

She started to – timidly; but she was edging towards him along the wall –

When the door slammed shut between them.

Anthony was only just lucky that his hand hadn't been taken off; he'd jerked it back just in time. Stunned, he kept his eyes on the door, and noticed there was a small, square window in it just at eye level; and the young woman's face was pressed up against it, abject panic in her every feature. She appeared to be shouting – screaming at the top of her lungs, in fact – but not a scrap of sound reached Anthony's ears.

"Don't worry," he called. "We'll get you out. Just…"

But there was no doorknob. No latch, no handle. Nothing. The door appeared to be completely sealed to the frame. "Impossible…" Anthony breathed…

"Maybe there's another way to open it," Tobias was saying; and before Anthony could respond the boy was tearing off God knew where, likely to find a way to release whatever mechanism had fastened the door.

"We're going to find – " Anthony began, looking back to the little window. But the woman's eyes had left him. She was leaning against the wall now, her head lolling onto her shoulder despite apparent efforts to lift it, looking as though she might faint. Anthony couldn't be certain, what with the darkness of the tiny room; but he thought her skin was taking on a bluish tinge…was she unable to breathe?...

Had the room somehow sealed off the air?...

"Tobias! Hurry!"

"There's nothing," came the boy's voice from far off.

"Just…get back here!" Anthony shouted, fearful now that something dreadful might befall the boy in this place.

The woman sank to the floor as Anthony watched; he banged his hand, his fist, on the door – uselessly, he knew; but this girl needed help…he couldn't just –

And then, before his eyes, the floor of the room disappeared and the woman was swallowed up in darkness.

Anthony stood numb for a moment, unable to believe what he'd just witnessed. But as the horror began to seep into his mind and pervade his heart, one thought took him over.

Tobias reappeared, and Anthony instantly seized his shoulders, ignoring the pain in his injured wrist as he did so, and hissed, "Take me to the cellar."

The boy's eyes widened in response.

Anthony shook him. "Take me there _now_, Tobias!"

"M-Mr. Hope, trust me, you don't – "

"_Damn it, Tobias!!"_

"She's not alive if she's down there!"

A solid block of ice took the place of Anthony's heart.

"There's no hope for her if she's there," Tobias went on breathlessly, as though trying to get the words out as fast as possible. "It's where he takes 'em all to die. And then he…"

Tobias swallowed.

"What? _He does what?!_"

"He does things to 'em. After they're dead. And some of 'em…he keeps 'em alive, but I think it's only to see how much they can take, how much pain they can…"

But Anthony was already tearing down the hall, frantically seeking a stair or a passage that would lead to this torture chamber…He flung open doors that led only to solid brick walls, went down blind corridors, found staircases that went nowhere, screaming _"Johanna!"_ with all his might, heedless of the pain this was causing him, barely hearing Tobias' voice at his back.

* * *

"You don't know it's Johanna, Sweeney."

Nellie had managed to get him away from the burned corpse and across the room to the wall, where she called on every ounce of physical strength she possessed to hold on to him. At length he'd settled down – from the sheer exhaustion of grief, she supposed – and sank against her. She wasn't even sure he knew she was there, really…

Now they were sitting against the wall, side by side, and he was finally calm enough that she thought he could be reached; so she'd been spending the past several minutes trying to convince him not to give up, even now.

"Who else would it be?" he whispered, his voice numb and weak.

"Any one of them other girls I seen come up here."

She heard him shift, and hoped the movement signified that this possibility hadn't even crossed his mind and he was now considering it.

"Anthony was wrong," she said quietly. "Trouble with you ain't that you don't have feelin's. Trouble with you is, you feel things _too_ much. Don't show it, o' course, but that's only because you don't want no one to know."

She paused, and his tired voice came through the darkness: "What d'you mean?..."

"When you fell for Lucy, you felt it too much. When you got deported and…went through whatever it was they done to you in that colony, you felt it too much. That's why you couldn't bear it, it ended up breakin' you, you just felt it all too deep. You felt it too deep with the judge, made you want to do in everyone in the world instead of just him. And now…you wouldn't be here if you didn't feel right deep for your daughter." Then, recalling from the depths of her memory an old line she'd heard or read somewhere, she added, smiling softly, "You're one who loves not wisely, but too well, Sweeney Todd."

Moments passed in silence before she heard him say "You really believe all that?"

Her smile broadened. "I know you better than you might think, dear."

She felt him beside her, rigid, unmoving, like a work in bronze, and she knew this meant he was thinking hard. It was a long while before the stillness was stirred again – not broken, for when Sweeney spoke, his voice was barely a wisp of sound, more a part of the stillness than an intrusion upon it.

"If I told you I would spend every breath tryin' to make things right with you…"

He didn't complete the thought, but she knew what his next words would have been. He wanted her to take him back; and she wanted that too, so badly it was like an inferno consuming her soul.

But…

"It don't matter, Sweeney," was what she said.

His voice was harsh as he countered, "Don't _matter?..._"

It pained her beyond measure to say this; an uncomfortable knot formed in the center of her chest as she drew a shallow breath. "It don't matter how I feel, or how you feel. I can't live with knowin' I'm never the one at the front of your mind. That I'll never come first in your heart. I want more than that. I want to be your only…" She trailed off in a shaky sigh. "I could pretend otherwise for a long time, but I can't anymore."

It was a long while before he answered, his voice tight and strained. "If you really believe that you're not…you don't know me half as well as you think."

"You _proved_ it to me that night," she practically shouted, striving not to shed tears in front of him, even though he couldn't see.

"You were married before yourself, Nellie," he said, now matching her volume. "You mean to tell me you don't think of Albert from time to time, that you don't see or hear somethin' what reminds you of him?"

She didn't know what this had to do with anything. "'Course I do."

"Well?"

"Wh – it's different."

"How so?"

"'Cause I told you before, I never…it's different with you."

"And I seem to recall sayin' somethin' very similar to you."

"Well, I ain't never called you Albert, have I?" she snapped, finally saying it, that one statement flinging all the concentrated venom of her anger and pain and rejection across the darkness at him.

She was answered with silence.

"I loved him," she said, softer now. "I did. But not like you loved – still love – your Lucy. And you will, always."

And then her voice dropped below her breath as she added, "She gave you what I never can."

She heard the familiar _grrrrt-click_ that meant he was gnashing his teeth, accompanied by the sound of a long sigh through his nose.

"There," she finished, an odd sense of satisfaction mingled with her intense discomfort at having this conversation. His agitated silence alone, she thought, was enough to prove her case.

But she was wrong.

"I married you for you yourself, Eleanor," his voice came between his teeth. "Not for some…hypothetical child what don't even exist."

Her heart started to race in shock. She had no idea he was aware of this feeling in her; they'd never spoken of it. To know that he _knew_, without her having to tell him, to know that he made the effort to ponder her inner life…it filled her with a strange sense of joy – unwelcome, because it closed the distance between them just a fraction, and she was afraid of what might happen again if it vanished altogether.

They didn't speak again for some time, the dark between them like an ocean although they were side by side. Nellie didn't know what she wanted anymore: she'd meant every word she'd said, of course; but finally living without him, finally going their separate ways after they found Johanna – _if_ she could be found, and if Holmes' "hotel" was even escapable – well, she couldn't seem to contemplate what that would mean. She was in so much constant anguish without him, she didn't know what was worse – the sickening void she knew he would leave in her, or the knowledge that she was nothing more than a pleasant distraction for him, a balm for his mind. A small but increasingly persistent voice within her kept needling that perhaps she _could_ make herself live with merely being his replacement wife, if only for the sake of his face being the first thing her eyes took in every morning for the rest of her life.

_Pathetic,_ she thought. _That's what it is._

"Nellie."

She was startled by his voice, though it was low and almost timid. "What is it?"

"What if it really is Johanna?..."

Her heart went out to him, his voice sounded so small, not like him; and her hand found his bent knee in the darkness. "It's not."

"You can't know that."

"Maybe; but _believin'_ it's the only thing what's gonna get us out of here."

He seemed to accept that – or at least, he made no audible protest. "Speakin' o' which," Nellie sighed, chiefly in an effort to take his mind off the possibility that the corpse three feet away was his daughter; "how long is Holmes plannin' on keepin' us here – "

As if on cue – as if Holmes had heard her words – a sudden metallic clang sounded somewhere in the bowels of the building, followed by a noise as of a mammoth bolt being drawn back.

"What in – " Nellie began, swiftly cut off by Sweeney's "Shh!"

She waited, heart pounding, ears straining. It seemed a giant machine was starting up, the grind of distant wheels and teeth giving way to a sibilant hiss far too close by.

"Sweeney – "

Then he was pulling her with him roughly, frantically, hugging the wall, scrambling away from the center of the room.

And then the walls exploded in flame.

* * *

**A/N:** It's not as much of a cliffie as it looks...I mean, do you really think I'd let anything truly terrible happen to our heroes? ;)

There was a lot of character stuff happening in this chapter - I think it was a bit slow...but after all, our favorite couple have a lot of issues to discuss and what better place for them to do this than being locked up, alone, in an inescapable dark room, with a corpse? I promise more action in the next installment, oh yes...there will be blood ;D In the meantime, help Yours Truly to be a better writer by **reviewing**. Or you can always send your thoughts in a PM. Thanks for reading!


	12. Horrors

**Disclaimers:** See Prologue.

**A/N:** I'm SO excited - the ever lovely and talented Phantomfr33k24601 made a banner for "When Sweeney Met Lizzie". It's awesome. It's the cat's pajamas. It's the bee's knees. It kicks very serious arse. And the link is on my profile, so go check it out and then tell its creator how great it is. Then read her stories 'cause they're the bomb.

Okay, in this chapter you learn where the title of this story came from. I don't want to give anything away yet so I'll say more in my AN at the end.

Thank you all so much for reading and I hope you enjoy this installment...

* * *

**11**

**Horrors.**

Sweeney was trying like mad to drop his weight, pinning Nellie under him, pressing her to the floor with all his might, as the conflagration raged not three feet above their heads. The acrid stench of burnt human hair filled his nostrils, and he was certain his hair and clothes had been singed as he'd placed himself as a shield between Nellie and the fire that had seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere…

Now Sweeney knew why the walls were made of iron.

It blazed for what must have been five full minutes; Sweeney felt as though his flesh might melt from the terrible heat scorching his back, the sweat pouring off him in streams, his mouth and eyes and throat sapped dry as stone. Nellie was lying horribly motionless beneath him.

And then, as soon as it had begun, it stopped.

Dead quiet descended in place of the deafening roar of the flames, their only trace now a severe lingering heat. Sweeney had been blinded by the sudden burst of light, and now that it was gone an orange film remained over his vision, making the room's darkness even more terrible somehow.

"Nellie…"

She stirred, her breath suddenly harsh and fast, as though she'd been holding it the whole time. "What the hell was that?!..."

At the moment, he didn't care. "Are you all right?" he asked, and realized that he was shaking from fear. If anything had happened to her, he didn't know what he would do…

"Can't breathe at the moment, dear," she answered, her voice strained.

His heart seized up. "Why? What's – "

"'Cause you've got every bit of your soddin' weight right on my…bleedin' lungs…"

He pushed himself up onto his elbows and was rewarded by a relieved grunt from her; but that was as far as he was willing to go. "I'm not letting you up," he said firmly.

"What?"

"We don't know if it's over yet. I'm not riskin' you getting' caught in…that, if it happens again."

A few quiet moments went by, the only sound their still-nervous breathing, Todd holding his wife close, terrified of letting her go.

"You didn't get burned, did you?" Nellie asked at length, her voice soft, full of concern.

"No.

She sighed in response, and all was still again for a time, until she spoke again. "Now we know what happened to that poor girl," she said, referring, Sweeney knew, to the body they'd found – which, he was still trying to convince himself, w_asn't_, couldn't possibly be, his own dear Johanna…"I can't believe all this has been goin' on right over my head all this time and I never – "

"Shh!" Todd hissed, because the machinery was starting again…He threw himself back onto Nellie, one hand on the back of her head, just as the flames poured from the walls.

This time, knowing what to expect, he ducked his head before the fire appeared, trying to prevent his eyes from being dazzled; and when the heat subsided, he looked up instantly, and only just caught a row of faint yellow pinpoints of light ranged along the far wall that sputtered out even as he watched.

"He's got some kind of device in the walls," he said aloud, for Nellie's benefit. "That's how he's doin' it."

"God almighty," she panted, "what's it all for? I mean, all right, yes, you and me…but there were _reasons_ for all that, weren't there?..."

"I suppose he just enjoys it, Nell."

He hardly knew what he was saying, and he barely recognized his own voice, it was so horribly unsteady…Nellie must have picked up on this as well, because she reached her hand around to find his, and clutched it tight.

Sweeney didn't know how much time passed without further incident. All was still for a long while before he deemed it safe to move. And he _had_ to move – they couldn't stay here forever; he had to find a way out of the room, had to find Johanna…

If only to give her a proper burial.

He began to shift, rolling off of Nellie as gently as he could.

"Where you goin'?" She sounded desperate.

"I'm gonna look for a way out of here."

"All right," she said, and he heard the rustle of her dress as she made ready to accompany him.

He reached out and found her bare shoulder in the dark. "No, I want you to stay here."

"Not bloody likely, Sweeney Todd!"

His hand tightened. "What d'you think it would do to me if that thing started up again and you were – "

But she grabbed his hand and pushed it away. "You damned fool of a man! Don't you know that if you – I'd – "

And then they both stopped breathing, because Fall River was coming back to him – and to her too, he knew…

"_I'll die with you, Sweeney Todd…"_

And she still would. Even now.

Todd reached out and drew her to him then, caring nothing for how she might react, only needing to hold her, to feel her against him, feel her warmth, to take in her scent, for what might well be the last time. Not until that moment did he fully realize how empty he'd been since she'd sent him away…Astonishment gripped him as he felt her arms slowly, hesitantly circle around him – loosely at first, then tighter, embracing him rigidly.

Before she could utter the protest he knew must be on her lips, Sweeney bent to her ear and whispered, "I'm askin' you, Nellie…stay here. For once in your life, please, do what I'm tellin' you…"

She went stiff in his arms. "Bloody hell, Sweeney…I think that's the first time you've ever said the word _please_ in your life…"

"Do as I'm askin', then!"

"All right," she complied; but he could tell by the hesitancy in her voice that she didn't like it at all. This was confirmed when he had some trouble extricating himself from her arms.

"Stay down and do not move for anything, no matter what happens," he told her, as he started to crawl forward, staying as flat as he possibly could, hugging the wall to his left.

He didn't know what he was looking for…a panel, a hidden door, any anomaly in the smoothness of the floor or the walls…He kept his ears out for that telltale sound signaling another blast of flame, but it didn't come.

His hands occasionally came across a piece of the corpse he'd pulled apart earlier, and he brushed them out of his way, striving to keep his mind away from the thoughts they elicited. Finally, he arrived at the end of the room, his fingertips brushing the surface of the far wall. He followed the turn, edging along the wall as it angled to the right, and at last he felt a break, a twine-thin crack, in the floor. Following this with his fingers, he found that it formed a sharp angle; following further, he traced the outline of a square, with the wall as its fourth side.

"Nellie," he called.

She made no reply; but Todd figured she was keeping quiet in her fear of Holmes overhearing her. "I think I've found a trap door over here," he continued.

But several attempts to pry his fingers under the crack and lift the panel proved fruitless. He reached up along the wall, seeking a lever or knob that might open it from this side, though he suspected such a thing would be pointless. "I'm gonna keep lookin' for a way to get this thing open," he said, to let her know why he wouldn't be returning any time soon, so she wouldn't worry. But she made no response.

"Nellie, did you hear me?"

Silence.

Panic turned him to stone.

"_Nell! Answer me!"_

She didn't.

Sweeney scrambled back, trying to stay below the line of Holmes' flame devices, half-crawling, half-slithering, in what he thought must be her general direction, calling her name and meeting only the soundless dark in reply…

Then something stirred at the far side of the room – a noise like the scrape of stone on stone, a creak of metal shifting – light glimmering in a long, thin line that grew slowly wider, allowing the scant illumination from the hall to limn the silhouette of a man, leaning casually in the now-open doorway.

"Dr. Marlowe," Holmes drawled. "Such a pleasure to entertain you at last."

Sweeney, paralyzed with something beyond the deepest fury he'd ever known, could only watch as Holmes cast a glance around the soot-soiled walls and sighed. "I see you've found my burning room. I designed it myself. What do you think?"

When Todd didn't answer, the druggist's eyes shifted down to the remains of the female corpse scattered across the floor. "Little Anne," he said dreamily. "They're all different, you know…This one…she burned so prettily…like a star, or the sun at its setting – "

In less than an instant, Todd was on his feet, across the room, a bestial scream ripping from his throat, pinning Holmes to the wall, his razor out and open and pressed to the sadist's jugular.

The momentary look of shock in Holmes' eyes subsided quickly, replaced by a calm infuriating smile.

"Where is she?" Todd growled, trembling with a rage he knew he must suppress if he wanted to learn Nellie's whereabouts.

Holmes chuckled. "Which one?"

Todd grasped the man's collar, pulled him forward, and slammed him back into the wall. To his utter shock, Holmes seemed to enjoy this treatment – the smile never left his face, but only grew wider, and a high-pitched giggle bubbled up from his throat.

"My wife," Todd answered, his voice feral, teeth bared.

"Ahh," Holmes sighed. "Your lovely…You know, I never did learn her first name. She was always only Mrs. Marlowe to me. I was never able to take her, you see; you were always there, always in my path…What did I hear you call her now?...Eleanor, I think it was?..."

Hell itself entered Todd at that moment. A red haze overspread his vision; he wasn't sure he could control himself much longer. No one called her that name. Ever. It belonged to him alone. So when Holmes repeated _"Eleanor,"_ practically groaning with unfulfilled desire, Sweeney deliberately cut the man just below his chin.

Holmes flinched, but his smile returned instantly.

"Try…again," said Todd, quaking with visions of this man's blood gushing over his hands. "What have you done with my wife and my daughter?"

_That_ dashed the grin from Holmes' face. "Your…_daughter?_"

"Yellow hair, Johanna Hope – or did you not bother to learn her name?"

Holmes smirked, quickly recovering. "Names are so important, Dr. Marlowe. I always make a point of learning their names when I take them in. Knowing a name gives one power – "

Todd shoved Holmes into the wall again, and this time his knife just happened to be in the way, slicing upwards along the man's jawline. He cried out that time; but Sweeney, disgust rising in him at the thought, couldn't be sure if it was a noise of pain or of pleasure. "How many others are there, Holmes?" he rasped, his windpipe constricted by the passion of fury gripping his whole being. "How many other innocent young girls you lured here and tortured and killed?"

Then Holmes looked right into Todd's eyes, as though he could see straight down into his very essence, and said, "You're one to judge me, aren't you, _Doctor?_"

Todd momentarily loosened his hold in shock; but Holmes made no attempt to escape.

"I can see it in your eyes. You've killed before. We recognize each other, our kind, oh yes – we know our brothers. You think you can get away with it, live like one of _them_, like a normal man, put it all behind you, have a nice wife and a normal little lad and a respectable profession." He shook his head. "You can't, sir. You'll always be a taker of life. It's who you are, like having that black hair and those black eyes…You're just like me, Dr. Marlowe. I was born with the devil in me. I can't help the fact that I'm a murderer, no more than the poet can help the inspiration to sing."

A terrible light came into Holmes' eyes then, as he gazed into Sweeney Todd's soul, killer to killer, demon to demon, and said, "I was born with the Evil One standing as my sponsor beside the bed where I was ushered into the world, and he has been with me since."

The razor's edge was right against Holmes' skin…it would be so easy, so satisfying, so justified…

"That's right," Holmes whispered. "I can see the bloodlust rising in your eyes…Go on, sir."

Todd's teeth clamped together, his knife hand shaking, the heat of need to deprive this monster of life so strong it was nearly unbearable. But he knew now that Holmes was far more cunning, this warren of chambers and corridors far more intricate, than anything he could possibly imagine; the druggist likely had Johanna and Nellie in a situation where Todd would never find them on his own – behind locked doors that only Holmes could open, or worse. No doubt that was Holmes' plan in goading Todd into killing him: prevent Todd from ever finding his family, ever knowing their fate. The ultimate form of torture, as Sweeney knew all too well – creating scars that couldn't be seen.

If he were ever to see his child and his wife again, he had to let Holmes go.

With a primal howl that carried all of his rage and loss and denied justice, Todd sliced the razor through the fabric of Holmes' shirt and across his chest, watching the spreading crimson with great satisfaction before clenching his fist around the man's throat. Holmes gaped at him, wide-eyed, as though shocked beyond belief that Todd had chosen this particular course of action.

"Now that we've got that settled," Todd snarled, "tell me where they are…"

* * *

Nellie awoke in pitch black. For a moment, she doubted she'd even opened her eyes.

The pain in her head was gargantuan; but she couldn't recall having been struck. All she remembered was Sweeney telling her to stay down, and hearing his movements as he crept through the room; and then being surrounded by a strange odor, like chamomile but mixed with something harsh just below the surface.

She was aware of standing on her feet, and recalled that this was an exceedingly dangerous posture given the capabilities of the room they were in. So she bent her knees –

– and they collided with a hard wooden surface mere inches in front of her.

_What the bloody…_

"Sweeney?" she called – or tried to; her tongue was thick, and the word came out slurred, her voice sounding at only a fraction of the volume it should have for the effort she'd put into it. The muffled quality of the sound also told her that she was in a very small space. She barely began reaching a hand out before encountering a solid wall; and as she continued feeling along its surface she discovered it must only be about two feet wide and the same deep.

Like a coffin.

Mercifully, whatever Holmes had incapacitated her with – for who else must be responsible for this? – was wearing off quickly now that she was conscious again. Although, she realized, it was rather hard to breathe; the closet-like space seemed to be getting closer by the second. Perhaps an after-effect of the drug…

She groped about the walls, searching for some flaw, some lever or button or anything at all that might open up the room. She knew she wouldn't find such a thing, but she couldn't just stand there helplessly without even making an attempt. It was a good thing she didn't fear closed-in spaces, or darkness. Or much of anything, really. But even she had to admit that this difficulty breathing was becoming rather worrisome, getting worse instead of tapering off. Leave it to Holmes, the little fiend, to concoct some drug that woke you up just before it suffocated you…

She was beginning to have trouble in drawing even a shallow breath. Where was Sweeney?...God almighty, had Holmes gotten to him?...had he been –

"No," she gasped, with an effort. That was one possibility she _would_ not even consider. She had to get out of here and find him…if anything happened, and they hadn't reconciled…

And in that moment, with the very walls seeming to press in on her and her breath coming only in quick, futile gulps, she thought this might be the end, that she might be dying; and all she could do was curse her own stubbornness. If she died in here, the last thing between them would have been bitterness; and she would never see her husband again, never hold him and feel his strong arms around her, see the life in his eyes that only appeared when he looked at her, see the smile no one else was ever allowed to witness –

_He was stiff and mumbly at the ceremony, mechanically parroting the words of the preacher (a somewhat shady clergyman-part-time-horse-trader friend of John Morse, bless the man), his tense, cold lips barely deigning to brush her own at the sealing of their vows. He'd barely even looked at her the entire time. Standing in the parlor of the house that another of Morse's acquaintances had offered for their use while he was out of town, Nellie faced the wall, jerkily pulling off her gloves and striving to force back tears. She'd hoped he might show _some _feeling, after all…_

_A tingle at the back of her neck signaled his approach as he slowly stole behind her, his arms circling her waist and tightening, his head resting on her shoulder. She swallowed the words she really wanted to say, afraid of regretting them later; but as if he could read her thoughts, he spoke first. "I couldn't let them see, Eleanor…I couldn't say those words the way I wanted to, couldn't kiss you the way I wanted to, because they would've seen inside me, and the only one who can ever see is you…" And he turned her in his arms and kissed her properly and repeated the vows, every word, gazing into her eyes with a love she never thought she'd see written on his face…_

The image of her wedding day was eclipsed by a yellow film clouding her sight…vaguely, hazily, she realized that even if she did manage somehow to make it out of here alive, she'd still never see those things again if her marriage remained unrepaired – those precious secret proofs of what he kept locked away in his heart…

So she swore to herself, then and there, that if she survived this, she'd do whatever it took to make things right with him.

A sense of joy, that peace that always accompanied the making of a right decision, filled her as she smiled and let her head fall against the front wall of the cabinet-like room. She was so tired…her lungs contracted feebly one last time…the floor seemed to drop away from her feet and she was falling, falling through blackness –

Wrenching pain shot through her shoulder as light burst on her eyes and air rushed once more, like knives, into her starving lungs – like coming back to life, only excruciatingly painful.

_Am I in hell?..._

Casting her gaze about wildly, she happened to catch, looking straight above her, the face of Sweeney Todd, filled with pure, abject, complete, unadulterated fear. Never had she seen him that way, and she wondered what must be causing such an unaccustomed display. His face was framed in the small rectangular space above her, his arms coming straight over the edge, as though he was lying on his belly and leaning through the opening; and he was gripping her arm with both hands, tight enough to bruise her very bones. She felt herself hanging suspended in midair between him and…

She turned her head and saw a long drop opening up below her, not unlike the distance between Sweeney's trap door and the floor of the bake house…only, instead of a smooth stone floor, a massive circular vat filled her vision, roiling with some greasy, colorless liquid, and she was poised right above it.

Only then did she return to her senses and remember where she was, and that, in fact, it _was_ rather a great deal like hell.

"Nellie, look up at me!"

She obeyed his voice instantly. His handsome features were twisted with the effort of holding her entire weight, and she could feel his arms begin to tremble. "Hold on," he ground out through his teeth; but he couldn't hoist her up like this, when she was a dead weight…Closing her fingers around his wrist and pulling just slightly, she managed to swing her free hand upwards and grab on to his forearm. He nodded and said "That's right, pull!" She did so, with a great cry, kicking out with her feet at the same time, hoping to find some leverage so she could push herself up at the same time; but there was nothing…

With much struggling, they finally managed together to get her shoulders above the level of the trap door she'd fallen through; and Sweeney instantly, with the quickness of mercury, snaked an arm around her back, anchoring her to him more solidly. She pulled herself up onto him, hand over hand, clutching fistfuls of clothing and skin, trying to ignore his grunts of pain; and when she had a good grip on the back of his waistcoat he gave one last desperate tug, came up onto his knees with a roar of effort, and toppled backwards, past the door of the cupboard and onto the floor of the hallway beyond, bringing her with him, latching his arms around her, shaking violently and trying to get his breath.

"Are you hurt?" he breathed; and only now, when she had a spare moment and wasn't occupied with trying to haul herself out of certain death, did the full impact of her situation begin to sink in, and her heart started racing. Had Sweeney not inexplicably rushed in when he did…But she couldn't allow herself to go to pieces, not now…they had to find a way out of here…

She shook her head and answered "No, I'm all right," relief and gratitude flooding her as she realized the truth of the words.

He pulled back, his eyes scanning her face, his expression dreadful to behold. "Did he touch you?"

She blinked. Who knew what Holmes had done while she'd been insensate? She hadn't even considered the possibility till now. "I…don't think so…" She broke off, muttering to herself, "blimey…"

Sweeney's face fell, as though she'd just told him Holmes had cut her hands off. "No," she said quickly. "I'm…I feel all right, dear, honestly."

He was looking at her as though he'd never seen her before, his hand rising to cradle her face now, his thumb stroking her cheekbone. "I thought I'd lost you," he breathed. "If you'd…I can't…not you, Eleanor. Not you."

She'd never seen him shed tears. Not even so long ago, when Barker had been his name – not even when he'd returned to London and stood in her parlor and listened to her tell him what Turpin had done to his Lucy and Johanna, though he'd come close then. Not even all the times he'd been shaken by nightmares and she'd had to soothe him back to sleep.

Not even when he'd discovered the shattering truth about Lucy.

But now, held captive by his eyes, she saw something behind their hard, black-marble coldness, a liquid warmth melting them and threatening to spill over. It took her breath away, that even the possibility of losing her was enough to make him weep. Astonished, enraptured, she placed her hand over his, and was suddenly so overcome with emotion that she could no longer bear to meet the intensity of his gaze. Her eyes closed and she leaned into his touch, whispering "You didn't lose me"; and when, after a long moment, she looked on him again, his tears were flowing freely and silently, spilling like rain on her skirt, falling like a balm on her heart. Slowly, she reached out, and with trembling fingers brushed the wetness from his skin, lingering at his jaw, letting his tears, more precious to her than any treasure, run down across her hand. Their contact, the feel of them forming little rivulets on her skin, made it all real, the fact that he was brought to this because of _her_; and her own tears began to answer his as she softly murmured, "You haven't lost me."

She stared at him pointedly, wordlessly begging him to understand her meaning. He certainly appeared to – an incredulous elation, something like hope, dawned in his eyes. But all too quickly his aspect darkened again, his jaw set in determination, and he took her hands firmly in his and said, his voice hoarse and quiet, "I know where he's got Johanna."

She knew what he meant: now that Holmes had made his move, it was of course more imperative than ever that they get out immediately. But not without Johanna.

Nellie's eyes widened as the impact of his words fully registered. "You saw him…"

Sweeney nodded. "It's how I knew where to find you."

She'd known all along that if there was an encounter between the two men, Holmes would not be the one to walk away; he was probably lying dead in a pool of his own blood even as she conjured the image in her mind…But before she had a chance to confirm this, Sweeney suddenly rose, pulling her up with him, and said "We need to get to the cellar." He looked as though he wanted to add something; but he let it go, turning and starting off down the hall, keeping hold of her hand.

"What about Toby and Anthony?" Nellie panted, still reeling in every aspect of her being from what she'd been through in the past several minutes.

"We'll come back for them if they don't catch up to us. We need to keep movin' if we're gonna get out of here."

Nellie didn't miss the new strength in his voice, the almost springing energy in his movements.

"How're we gonna get down there? Toby's the only one knows the way – "

But just then her question was answered, as they rounded a corner and the strange, oblong lift they'd discovered earlier came into view.

"You go first," Sweeney ordered. "I'll bring it back up for myself."

She nodded, and he stood by, ready to assist her but not needing to, as she awkwardly bundled herself into the lift.

"When you get down there, _don't go anywhere_," Sweeney commanded. "You wait for me. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

He grumbled at her sarcasm – then pulled the lever, and the lift groaned into motion.

She felt she was descending into the depths of the earth. After her near-suffocation in the cupboard-like room, she found being crammed into this tiny, dark space more than a little unnerving. But she held together, telling herself they were almost out of this house of horrors, until she finally felt the lift judder to a stop.

She rolled stiffly off the shelf, unable to swing off properly because the thing was so god-awful narrow, and landed on her knees with a wince and a hiss of pain that Sweeney apparently heard, because she heard him call out, very far away, "Nell! Are you all right?"

"Yes, fine," she shouted. "Your turn."

She heard the lift crank to life again and watched it vanish upwards, hoping that Sweeney would indeed descend in a few moments, that he hadn't left Holmes alive to trap him alone…

"Get hold of yourself, Nellie," she muttered aloud. Figuring she could distract herself by getting her bearings, seeing if she could determine a way forward, she turned and glanced around.

She was standing in an alcove much like the one above, but with a wider arch that opened onto a view of a large, vault-like space. Tentatively, she stepped just to the opening and looked out.

Gas jets sputtered along the walls, ironically brighter and more numerous than upstairs; but the ceiling was lost in shadow. Red brick walls, slick with damp, gaped blackly into branching passages and chambers. It reminded her of the bake house. Right down to the stench of decay and burned human flesh.

But the bake house never had great open pits in the floor.

Behind her, the lift thudded to a halt, and she heard Sweeney grunting as he clambered out. Without a word, he brushed past her, but pulled up short at her warning shout. Only then did he notice the two yawning openings at his feet.

"What the hell…"

Nellie was instantly at his side, staring down with him into the depressions. There was no way to tell how deep they went, but about five feet from the edge they were filled with white, crystalline powder.

Nellie knew this substance. She'd used it herself, back in London, years ago before she'd stopped being able to afford having it brought in…the stuff was so much more efficient than fire at dissolving scraps of meat, and bones.

Quicklime.

Right by the lift, so Holmes could bring down the bodies of his victims and dispose of them quickly.

Sweeney bolted in a random direction. Nellie strove to keep up with him, calling after him to slow down and calm himself, though he gave no indication that he heard. They were stumbling about blind, and that was dangerous in this place…she expected ay moment to fall into some trap or tumble into a chasm…

She uttered a silent prayer that she wouldn't lose him when he vanished through a shadowy arch, the only sign of his presence (and Nellie's only guide in following him) the sound of his rushing footsteps echoing up ahead. It wasn't long before the darkness gave way to a small lighted chamber, where she could see Sweeney standing before a long table, his head cast down, regarding what lay upon it.

Nellie's eyes traveled to the table's head, and she gasped. It was one of the officers – Frost, was it? – who'd come just that morning to investigate Johanna's disappearance. He was stripped, and his arms were stretched out over his head and bent behind his back, the ball of his shoulder joints protruding horribly, wrenched from their sockets. The same had been done to his legs, pulled beyond endurance and bent under the table – which, Nellie was beginning to realize from the presence of pulleys and cranks, was actually a rack.

She drew near to Sweeney, who was gazing down at this man with a curious expression; and that was when she saw the scar, running from the base of Frost's throat to his groin. It was recent – raw and weeping, and crudely sewn, gaping open an inch in some places. The frail, sickeningly wet stertor coming from the man's throat told her that in spite of what had been inflicted on him, he was still alive.

Nellie was not a sensitive woman – far from; but this wasn't just death, not even only murder. It was torture – deliberate, malicious, and done solely for Holmes' personal entertainment. It was beyond repulsive. She felt tears stinging the back of her eyes as she took in the sight.

Frost's eyelids slid open, and when he saw Sweeney they widened in initial terror. But Sweeney, very softly, said, "I'm goin' to kill Holmes. But first I need to find someone. Young girl, yellow hair."

It seemed Frost was trying to speak, but all he could manage was a pathetic lift of his chin. Finally he stilled, and Nellie thought he wasn't going to answer.

"_Tell me where she is!"_ Sweeney bellowed.

The officer's eyes held Sweeney's for a moment, then flicked away, towards a wooden door in the corner of the room.

Nellie knew what Sweeney was going to do the instant he reached into his jacket. She watched as the gaslight burnished the razor's edge, as Sweeney grasped the man's hair with one hand…and after a harsh gasp, his blood was pouring onto the floor, running into a convenient drain beneath the rack.

Sweeney's face was hard and desperate when he turned to face her – not from any compunction about putting Holmes' victim out of his suffering, but in a kind of despair. Toby had been right – if Johanna was down here, her survival was very unlikely.

But Sweeney, like a charging bull, was heading to the door Frost had indicated, when the sound of raised voices reached Nellie's ears. She caught up to him and grabbed his arm, holding him back from the door – he whirled around, his expression promising he'd never let her forget it if he was too late. But soon he heard the voices as well, and pulled Nellie into the corner, in shadow, and held a finger to his lips

She nodded. For all they knew, Holmes had accomplices; and it wouldn't do to have their efforts thwarted when they were so close…nor to be dragged back into the depths of the cellar to be subjected to only God knew what…

Sweeney crept to the room's only entrance, a doorless open archway, his back to the wall beside it, ready to pounce the instant anyone stepped through. But as the voices and accompanying footsteps drew closer, Nellie recognized them, and shouted "Sweeney, wait!"

Too late. A figure came barreling through the door and Sweeney was instantly on him, clamping him in a bear hold and throwing him against the wall, his antagonist howling as he did so. Not even when Toby appeared and grabbed the barber's sleeve, yelling "Mr. T!" did he loose his hold. Only when Nellie rushed over and firmly took his other arm and spoke his name did he snap out of his focus, blinking in confusion when he saw that it was Anthony he'd assaulted.

The poor man was grimacing in silent agony, his hands trembling as he gasped for air – Nellie was certain Sweeney had come close to re-fracturing the ribs he'd set a week before.

_"Damn it, boy!"_ Sweeney roared, looking as if he'd like to do some more damage. But suddenly he was fishing through Anthony's pockets, finally extracting a small brown bottle and handing it to Toby, saying "Give him a capful of this. And stay here with him." And above Toby's protests, he was taking off again, to the ominous wooden door.

"No!" Anthony was shouting – to Toby or to Sweeney, Nellie didn't know. "I have to do this! She's my wife! I have to…"

Nellie felt a pang for the lad – if it was Sweeney in danger, she knew she'd go through anything, any pain, to be the one who came to his aid. But they had to ignore Anthony's pleas; he'd been in no condition for this search to begin with…She was hard behind Sweeney, anticipating the worst when he opened that door – she knew he'd need her there, when he found his daughter, because she was convinced they'd be too late now. He would need her comfort…or would he be so drowned by grief that he'd shut her out?...

_Will this be the thing that loses him to me, finally, forever?..._

No. She wouldn't allow that. Not after her realization in Holmes' little deathtrap. When this was all over, she was going to tell her husband to come home. He was her life. She would do anything, whatever it took, to pull him back from the darkness…

The door wasn't locked, and it swung easily for Sweeney's eager hand. Looking past him into the room beyond, Nellie was astonished: it was a lovely bedchamber, with the best appointments, fit for nothing less than a mansion. But Holmes' intentions being what they were, there was nothing comforting about this. In fact, the idea that he'd have such a place in this cellar made its beauty all the more sinister, like a fascinating animal attracting its prey in order to devour it.

Sweeney stopped short just inside the doorway, as if he'd run into a wall, causing Nellie to bump into his back. "Love?" she prodded gently, her heart pounding in anxiety over what had caused him to halt like that. "What is it?" She couldn't see the whole room from here, and craning her neck she asked, "Is she here?..."

He didn't answer. Suddenly, as if he'd been straining at a tether, he lurched into the room, crashing to his knees by the bed, his hands grasping the comforter helplessly, his face a mask of horror; and there, looking like the delicate corpse of an angel, was Johanna, fastened to the bed with straps crossing her body, and what looked like black cables attached to her arms…

Nellie knew she was gone. Never had she seen a breathing person appear so lifeless.

But Sweeney was on his feet again, leaning over his daughter's form, placing his hands on her neck, her wrists…He followed the cables with his hands to where they disappeared behind the headboard; apparently finding nothing of help there, he began tearing off his jacket and waistcoat, ripping strips of fabric from his shirt, manipulating the cables, removing them from Johanna's nearest arm and bandaging the wounds they'd made.

Nellie rushed over to him, incredulous. "She…she's alive?"

He nodded frantically, continuing his work, utterly focused.

Nellie hastened to the other side of the bed and began tearing material from her own skirt, watching Sweeney and trying to imitate what he was doing, trying to help him get this done as quickly as possible. He didn't object.

"Sweeney," she said softly, hoping she wouldn't break his concentration but needing to know…"What is all this? What's he done to her?"

His face was stern, his expression savage as he replied.

"The son of a bitch is draining her blood."

* * *

**A/N: **Holmes really did have at least one acid vat and two quicklime pits in his basement, along with the rack-like device.

The "born with the devil" quote, including the bit about the "Evil One" being Holmes' sponsor, are Holmes' own words. I believe he wrote them in his memoir, "Holmes' Own Story"; but I could be wrong about that. Anyway, he really did say that. I got the quote from Troy Taylor's website, which is full of all kinds of other serial killer/paranormal/general weirdness fun. The link is on my profile, since won't let me post it here *rolling eyes* A word of warning, though, some of the stuff on there is not for the squeamish...

Thanks again for reading - as always, **please review** and let me know what worked here and what didn't. :)


	13. Blood

**Disclaimers:** See Prologue. This is also a good time to mention Troy Taylor's website, where I got my information on Holmes and the "born with the devil" quote. The website link is on my profile page.

**A/N:** I had a good majority of this chapter written a long time ago, hence the speedy update :) I hope it's all right. Let me know.

A big huge THANK YOU as always to my reviewers and subscribers. The reviews I've been getting for this story are just beyond belief, so encouraging and heartening. I seriously cannot thank you enough for the positive feedback I've received on this.

Enjoy...

* * *

**12  
**

**Blood.**

Anthony would have none of the laudanum that Tobias had poured into the bottle's cap (spilling a greater quantity than actually got into the cap, his hands were shaking so badly), pushing the boy's hand away so that the cap tumbled to the floor and ignoring the muttered curses and protests that "Mr. Todd will be bloody cross!..."

He was burning to follow Todd and his wife into that room; but he was in so much pain that he couldn't move, could only stand against the wall, bent nearly double and sucking air past his re-injured ribs, tormented by the sound of hushed but animated voices beyond the open door, occasionally punctuated by Todd's louder snarl. So frustrated and helpless did Anthony feel that he was almost in tears.

Apparently his young companion noticed this, because he quietly said "Don't worry, Mr. Hope. If there's a way…I mean, if it's possible to save her, Mr. Todd will do it. He loves his daughter, he does."

Anthony looked up to see the lad holding out another capful of laudanum.

"You should take it," the boy said. "Won't do your wife much good if you're all doubled up in pain like that, will you?"

Anthony sighed and resignedly took the cap, wincing as he swallowed the tincture.

Just when he got it down, the sound of frantic, shuffling footsteps reached his ears. His head snapped up to see Todd tearing towards him, his shirt hanging in tatters from his lanky frame, his eyes blazing black fire, looking every inch a fiend out of hell were it not for the fact that he cradled sweet Johanna in his arms, Todd's own jacket draped over her.

Anthony's heart leapt; he cried his wife's name and sprung forward, but Todd acted as if he didn't exist, pushing past him and growling _"Toby!"_

As though the boy knew exactly what Todd wanted, he spun on his heel and bolted out the door, leaving Anthony furious, gritting his teeth and stumbling after them. But no sooner had he gone two steps than he felt a hand on his arm, and turned to see Mrs. Todd, looking even whiter than usual, her forehead creased, carrying Todd's waistcoat over her arm. "It's all right, son," she said, beginning to walk hurriedly with him, following the direction Todd had taken. "He's gonna make sure she's all right."

But her face told Anthony a different story. She was clearly distressed. "What happened to her?" he asked, dreading the answer, his voice quavering.

Mrs. Todd sighed and didn't look at him as she quietly answered, "Holmes took some of her blood."

A steel fist seemed to punch straight through Anthony's chest. He stopped short, hoping he'd misheard. Surely she couldn't have said –

"We've got to keep movin'," she urged, tugging at his arm. But his feet wouldn't move.

"What…what do you mean, he took – "

"_Nellie!"_ Todd's voice was screaming far away, echoing through the brick chambers…

She grasped Anthony's arm then – astonishingly strong – and pulled him along, making him stumble on his crutches but not stopping, heading towards Todd's voice.

"Mrs. Todd, tell me what's happened to Johanna, please..."

She determinedly set her face straight ahead. "Holmes took her blood, Anthony."

He staggered along beside her, blindly placing one foot in front of the other, unable to believe the words he knew he'd heard clearly this time, feeling as if that steel fist had now ripped his heart out. "She…she's lost, then?"

"No, no. She's alive," Mrs. Todd said, a little too quickly and brightly, her voice a little too high; but that was all Anthony needed to hear. He began to grow dizzy from the wild extremes of emotion assaulting him.

"How did he do that?" he asked, an odd numbness beginning to take him over. Whether from the laudanum or as a way for his mind to deal with this startling information, he didn't know.

Mrs. Todd shook her head brusquely. "We don't know."

"Well…how much blood has she lost?"

Mrs. Todd didn't answer right away, as though trying to shape her answer to suit his anxiety. "He's got no way of knowin'," she said at length. "Right now we all need to concentrate on gettin' out of this place. Mr. Todd is takin' her to his clinic – "

Her words were swallowed up in a sharp, sudden wailing resounding through the passages, thrown harshly back off the brick and stone – the terrible noise of a man screaming his throat raw, shrieking in fury from the depths of his being, like the yowling of the damned coming up from the abyss. It chilled Anthony's blood, pricked up the hair on his arms; and they both stopped at the sound, Mrs. Todd looking about anxiously. "He knows we're close to leavin'," she muttered, seemingly to herself.

"_Nellie, get up here _now_!"_ Todd's voice came again somewhere up ahead; and his wife tightened her hold and was off again, practically dragging Anthony with her…the tincture of opium was definitely beginning to make itself felt now, slowly sapping his energy and his strength and his capacity for coherent thought…Mrs. Todd was pulling him towards raised voices, distant but growing louder, closer…the deep, gruff voice of the barber in counterpoint with the higher, more frantic protests of young Tobias...Mrs. Todd, casting her gaze all around in search of more of Holmes' devices, paused a moment – then stopped short – when she noticed a small hole in the floor.

"Oh, God," she gasped; and Anthony followed her gaze. At the bottom of the small opening, only about three feet deep, lay a jumble of brown bones. The skull was too tiny, like a child's…

"_MARLOWE!!"_ came Holmes' voice, closer now, like a hound of hell nipping at their heels…

With a sharp intake of breath, Mrs. Todd jerked Anthony's arm again, and they were rushing onward, until Anthony saw two great shadows looming against a far wall, and heard Tobias shout "It's sealed up tight, Mr. Todd!"

"_God damn it, boy!"_ Todd was railing, _"I will skin you alive! – "_

Johanna lay lifeless in his arms, her skin nearly blue, and Anthony could detect no movement of her chest in breathing. It was obvious that Tobias could not open the door leading to the ground floor and the main hotel entrance, the way he'd let them in only a short time before. Anthony limped over to them and lay a hand on his wife's cheek. She was stone cold. Whether it was the sudden impact of her condition or the laudanum weakening him or the combined effect of all they'd seen, he burst into tears, earning a harsh glare from Todd that soon softened into reluctant sympathy. Tobias was frantically working away at the door, Mrs. Todd standing by looking as though she hated her helplessness, watching, a hand to her mouth…

"_You will not take them from me, Marlowe!..."_

"The passage to Holmes' shop," Todd said; and Tobias nodded but his wife countered, "He'll know we're takin' that way, he can double back and be over there to meet us – "

"_I will see the flesh dissolve from your bones!..."_

Anthony would never know whether the drug made him foolish, or whether the sight of his dearest, most precious love so tormented _yet again_, always suffering so much so undeservedly, awakened the wrath in him…but he made a decision in that moment, and he knew Sweeney Todd would understand…

"Go," he said. "I'll stay behind and hold him off."

Three pairs of dark, shadowed eyes stared at him, incredulous. "You're mad!" said Mrs. Todd. "Just look at the state of you! Can't hardly walk, we're not leavin' you alone with that lunatic!"

But they could hear Holmes' footsteps now, rushing along the stone floors; he would be on them any moment…

Anthony turned to Todd, and the man's face was soft, his eyes distant, as though deep in thought or memory. Something passed between them, a mutual understanding; and Todd's jaw tightened and he nodded. "All right, son."

His wife's jaw dropped. "But – !"

"Lead the way, Toby," said Todd; and in an instant the three of them were off, Tobias leading them to safety, vanishing in shadow. The last he saw of them was Mrs. Todd, sparing a worried look over her shoulder before the darkness swallowed her.

* * *

Unbelievably, Holmes had not repaired the door Toby had so cleverly removed from its hinges. Perhaps, in his rush to deal with the intruders to his domain, he hadn't taken the time…But Sweeney barely spared it a thought as he ducked and scrambled through the archway, Toby up ahead valiantly attempting to hold his lit candle aloft and pausing to re-light it every time the breeze of their hurried passage blew it out…Finally Sweeney bellowed at the lad to leave it, they'd stumble in the dark, they didn't have time…

There was no _time_.

Fifteen goddamned years of breaking rocks and all he'd had then was time, nothing but time dragging brutally, endlessly, uselessly on. And now he couldn't take a single one of those minutes to trade for a chance to save his daughter's life.

He let out a roar in his paroxysm of frustration. Never had he been so powerless. He'd taken things into his own hands in bringing justice to Lucy's memory, encouraging Anthony in his quest to free Johanna from Turpin. Only moments ago he'd been able to save Eleanor.

But this…

She was growing colder his arms by the second, the jacket he'd told Nellie to tuck around her not much help against the chill that came from within. Her life was draining away before his eyes. There was only one option…and it very well might quench the tiny spark of life that remained in her.

He clutched her ferociously, possessively against his chest as they flew unmolested down the passage, as if he could somehow pour his own life into her just by willing it…his little girl…he used to cradle her just like this…He was suddenly aware of his own voice, muttering soothing phrases as if she were just a child…"don't worry darlin', it's gonna be all right…I'm here, my lamb…don't be afraid…"

After what seemed hours, they burst from the narrow tunnel into a small, dark cellar, then, still following Toby's lead, through another door and up into Holmes' storeroom. The druggist was not there waiting for them. A thought of Anthony flitted through Sweeney's mind, as it was thanks to him that they'd been able to make their escape. Sweeney had understood the young man's desire to confront Holmes…oh yes, how well he'd understood. How could he have taken that chance away from the lad?...

On the move, Toby informed them that the back door was not viable as an exit, thanks to the chain fastening it on the outside; so they headed to the front of Holmes' store and hurried out the front door.

It was that easy.

"D'you want me to find a carriage, Mr. Todd?" Toby asked as the three of them ran down 63rd Street, little noticing the heads that turned in their direction.

Sweeney shook his head and shouted "No time!" _No time…_

The clinic was still a block and a half away, and Sweeney's arms were trembling, the muscles seizing up from so long supporting his daughter's weight, despite her small, light frame…His legs were weakening, his pulse speeding at a draining, dangerous pace; but he couldn't stop…he had to keep going…he _would not allow_ her to die…

Over and over the words _please…please…please_ ran through his mind, the closest he'd come to praying in nearly twenty years, though he couldn't have said who might care enough to listen.

Finally his destination came into view, and Sweeny forced himself to wait on the stoop while Nellie fished through the pockets of his waistcoat for the key, handing it to Toby when she found it. At last the boy got the door open and Sweeney crashed through to the treatment room, placing his daughter tenderly on the table, ready to collapse from his efforts but propelling himself to his work by the sheer power of his will. In a frenzy he ripped open his cabinets and pulled the mahogany box off the shelf – gasping as it slipped from his sweating hands; if the glass funnel broke! – but he managed to fumble it onto the counter and began taking out the apparatus' components, forcing his mind to focus on sorting the pieces, to take one move at a time, in the proper order…_funnel, on the chair…tubes, to the funnel…_

"What're you gonna do, sir?" Sweeney heard Toby's nervous voice, although he didn't see him…

"She needs blood," he replied automatically.

"I'll help."

"Get two woolen blankets from the front cabinet, then."

Sweeney didn't even realize the boy had left before he was standing at the table, placing the blankets over Johanna without needing to be instructed.

"Well done," Sweeney said distractedly. "Now go home."

"I can still help with the – "

But Sweeney shook his head as he finished putting the tubes in order and readied the lancets. "You're too young. Go home."

"But sir – "

Sweeney rounded on him, all his rage and helplessness finally boiling out of him as he screamed _"Get out of here!"_

The boy scurried out, leaving Sweeney to put the final touches on the equipment's arrangement. He tried desperately to steady his hands as he pierced his daughter's arm with the lancet; but he was shaking so badly he caused a deeper gash then he'd intended. No matter – he quickly inserted the tube and strapped it down, then tossed the lancet into the basin, took the clean one from the box, and rushed over to the chair.

How was he going to do this?...He needed to be able to work the syringe with the tube in his arm, keeping his focus the entire time he was losing his own blood...

"Sweeney."

The voice snapped him out of his frantic thoughts and he looked up to see Nellie standing in the doorway.

His breath quickened, his eyes widening: she was his solution. He stepped towards her, holding out the lancet. "Take it," he said, rolling up his sleeve. "I'll tell you what to do."

But she shook her head.

His jaw dropped in infuriated shock. Surely she couldn't wish to see Johanna die…he knew she was jealous of his past, but to wish his daughter _dead_?...He thought they'd reached an understanding in Holmes' hellhole; he thought, as they'd wept in each other's arms, that they stood a chance at mending their broken marriage and carrying on. But now, this…How could she do this to him? _"__She's going to die!"_ he roared. _"She needs blood NOW!"_

Nellie nodded calmly and started undoing her dress, sliding it down off one shoulder. "I know," she said. "Take mine."

He stopped – moving, breathing, everything. He was numb with astonishment as he watched her bare her arm and settle in the chair, closing her eyes, breathing shallowly.

"She needs a good deal of blood, Nellie," he said, softly now, overwhelmed by her gesture, still unable to believe it.

She nodded again. "Better be quick, then," she said.

Sweeney blinked, moved to her, and knelt down. There was no time to argue. "Get ready," he said gently, and held the lancet over her milky skin. A wince flashed across her face and she hissed faintly when the small blade opened her vein; but when he slid the tube up into it and fixed the strap to her arm all she did was open her eyes and smile at him, and murmur "Proper artist with a knife, you are," and the love in her eyes nearly broke his heart.

When he was satisfied with his preparations, he seated himself on the stool, taking the syringe in his hand –

And froze.

On either side of him were the two women he cared for – no, bugger that; he _loved_ them – more than he'd thought himself capable. His wife, who'd made it very plain she was done with him but who still gripped his heart like a vise whenever her face entered his thoughts. His daughter, his precious little baby, whom he'd missed for so long and only just found again.

What if he killed one of them? Both of them?

Suddenly Sweeney Todd didn't want to be God anymore. The vaunted power of life and death, so alluring, so inebriating, was suddenly now a crushing burden that threatened to swamp him. All he felt was the massive weight of the cherished, priceless lives he quite literally held in his hands. His clammy palm rested on the pump, motionless.

He couldn't face the possibility that something might go wrong. If he lost even one of them, it would be his fault…he would never be able to live with himself…

"Sweeney."

He looked up to see Nellie's eyes fastened on him, full of trust and faith. As if she'd read his mind, she whispered, "Yes you _can_, love."

And slowly, his eyes never leaving hers, his arm moved, drawing his beloved's blood, sending it to his daughter. A strange fascination stole over him as he watched his wife's vital fluid flow through the tube, a dark, rich, deep ruby red, the very essence of her life. It wasn't as if he hadn't seen blood before. It wasn't as if he hadn't seen hers, when she'd cut herself working on occasion. But he'd never been the one to draw it from her, as he was doing now – as she was willingly allowing him to do, giving up a bit of her own life for Johanna's sake.

No…not for Johanna. For _him_.

He thought he'd never loved her so much as in that moment.

He never took his eyes off her as he worked the syringe, watching intently for the signs that her body had given enough. When he saw her head fall onto her shoulder, he ripped his gaze from her for the first time to assess Johanna's condition.

"Come on, Nellie," he whispered. "Just a bit more…"

But a moment later her ever-waning complexion grew livid, her breathing barely perceptible, and he knew it was past time.

Forcing down his emotions so as not to move too quickly and cause damage, he rose and carefully removed the tube from Nellie's arm, bandaging the lancet's mark with shaking hands, leaving the apparatus to drain the remaining fluid into Johanna. He felt Nellie's pulse at her wrist and neck – it was tolerably strong, and he heaved a sigh of relief. He wrapped his arms around her, reaching past the open fabric of her dress at the back to loosen the ties of her corset so she could breathe unrestricted; then he gently lifted her, carried her out to the sofa in the waiting area, and procured two woolen blankets from the cabinet, which he immediately tucked around her.

He only left her for a moment to retrieve the bottle of wine, which he didn't bother partnering with a glass – he simply raised her head with his left hand and softly said, "Nellie, drink this for me," placing the bottle to her lips. She whimpered weakly at first; but he was insistent, and at last she took a sip and drank it down.

That reassured him. It meant she was lucid and in control, and he marveled – not for the first time – how strong and resilient she was. She even gave him a brief, thin smile.

He kept administering the wine in small doses until he perceived that she was drifting off. But just as he was about to rise and leave her to rest, she faintly whispered "Sweeney?"

He stroked her hair. "I'm here, my love."

"Sweeney?" she repeated a bit louder, moving her head as if searching for him, trying to force open her eyes.

"What is it, pet? I'm right here."

"Was it enough?"

That was the last thing he'd expected to hear, and his throat constricted. "I think so. You need to rest now."

She fell silent once more, and he thought she must be sleeping; but when he stood up, he heard her voice again:

"I love you."

That made him kneel at her side once more, and he took her hand.

"I never stopped. Not for a single instant. You have to know…"

He hushed her gently, struggling to keep from breaking down so he could finish his work. "I do know, my dear. I know."

Right up until the moment he'd saved her from Holmes' trap, when she'd told him he hadn't lost her, that statement would have been a lie. But now – especially now that he'd seen the lengths she'd gone to for his sake – he could say those words with complete honesty; and she must have heard it in his voice, because she smiled again, and fell asleep.

Sweeney left her then, to tend to Johanna; and once he was certain of his daughter's stability and convinced it was safe to leave her alone to rest, he returned to his wife. She was still cold…he lifted the blanket and slipped in beside her, giving her his own warmth, holding her close, watching as her body replenished itself in sleep.

* * *

Anthony threw down one crutch and hefted the other by its base with both hands, ready to use it as a club if he had to. He was perfectly resigned to dying, knowing he'd given his life for his Johanna…he didn't want to leave her, but he was certain, after everything he'd seen, that Todd would see she was well cared for...He was actually smiling as he heard Holmes' footsteps drawing ever nearer…

…until suddenly, emerging from the shadow of an arch, the man himself appeared, his eyes shining in the dimness.

When he saw Anthony standing alone, he pulled up short, confusion knitting his features as his glittering eyes darted back and forth, taking in the scene, narrowing as he realized his quarry had eluded his grasp.

He straightened, his hands delving into his pockets. He rocked on his heels for a moment. Then a smile spread over his face, and he actually chuckled as he stepped casually forward into the light. Only now could Anthony see the gashes in his face, the wide scarlet stain on his shirt front; and he knew that Todd was responsible.

"And why are you here all by your lonesome, eh?" Holmes said, his voice reverberating through the cold chamber. "What do I want with you?" His eyes traveled over Anthony's form from head to foot, finally landing on the crutch he was wielding. "Not much of a challenge, are you? What fun would that be?"

"They're gone, Holmes," said Anthony, immensely satisfied to deprive this monster of winning his game.

"The door," Holmes said, shaking his head in a self-deprecating way. "There just wasn't enough time to repair it _and_ keep an eye on all of you. Altogether you certainly did give me a run for my money, oh yes you did! I do apologize that I couldn't have given more attention to you and your little friend; but the surgeon and his lovely wife were so much more diverting, you understand. Even I can't be everywhere at once, you know."

If Anthony had encountered Holmes on the street, or in the market, he'd think he was a perfectly normal man, the way the druggist was speaking so lightly, so calmly, as though discussing the weather. Only the dark content of his speech betrayed his madness. "I'll kill you for what you've done to my wife, Holmes."

But Holmes only shrugged. "I have no interest in you, my boy. You're free to go. I won't come after you."

Anthony's eyes narrowed.

"I can see you don't trust me," said Holmes. "D'you know what I saw once, when I was young? Some of my pals and myself were kicking about one day when we came across a spider's web with a wasp trapped in it. And we watched that wasp struggle and strain to get out of that web. Good Lord," he chuckled, "must've taken the poor creature half an hour to do it. But it did. I swear to you, that wasp got itself out of that spider's web. Have you _ever_ heard of such a thing? And do you know what one of my pals did then? As that noble insect was crawling away, he stepped on it. Just crushed it right into the ground. Now I ask you, was that fair? Was that sportsmanlike? No, Mr. Hope. I'm not like my pal. I won't watch my wasps escape my web only to crush them when they show such cleverness and audacity. Particularly not when you're the first ones ever to escape me. I must say, I am mightily impressed. This place was not meant to be escaped." He sighed deeply. "I do so regret losing Mrs. Marlowe – dear Eleanor – and your little Johanna, I still had some plans for her…"

Anthony swallowed hard. "You'll regret this, Holmes."

"I don't think so, young man. What will you do? Turn me in? The police will never believe you. Who _would_, indeed?"

Holmes moved forward then, ever smiling, the gaslight gleaming in his eyes and on his teeth and shimmering across the drying blood on his shirt, as he said, "I've fulfilled my purpose, really. The greatest torment I can inflict on you is to know that you'll remember this for the rest of your days. Every moment, you'll think about what I did to your darling wife. And Marlowe, too; he'll always remember that this was the place where he lost his daughter. She's dead by now, Mr. Hope, trust me for that at least. But me…I've made a mark on your mind, my friend, that will stay with you forever. You'll forget her face eventually. But you'll never, ever forget mine."

And then he slowly turned away, swaggering back into the recesses of the cellar, saying "You'll pardon me, I'm sure; I do have other guests to attend to. The exit is that way," he finished, with a careless wave of his hand, leaving Anthony stunned and reeling.

* * *

**A/N: Please review!** Let me know how this was. The end was a bit odd, with no physical altercation between Holmes and Anthony; but really, our little sailor wouldn't stand much of a chance, all beat up and on crutches and hopped up on laudanum; and I really didn't want to kill him...So, let me know if this worked :)


	14. Home

**Disclaimers:** See Prologue.

**A/N:** Many of you have perceived that we're nearing the end of this story. Alas, your perception is correct. There will be one more chapter and an epilogue after this. I can't express enough thanks to those of you who've said you'll be sad when this story ends, that you'll miss it, and especially, that you hope I'll keep writing. I do intend to write more ST fic; exactly what form that's going to take, I'm not sure yet...I think this series is running out of steam, so I may go in an entirely different direction, start all over again from scratch with an entirely new concept...

Well, at any rate, this is the chapter you've all been waiting for, I'm pretty sure. I just hope I've done it justice. The title says it all...

* * *

**13**

**Home.**

She supposed he hadn't heard her come in. He was standing before the cupboards in the treatment room, his back to the door, fiddling with some surgical instruments – getting them in order after boiling them, she guessed.

He'd been round every day to check on her since the transfusion, giving Toby firm instructions for her care, ignoring her protests that she could take care of herself and he could talk to her just as well as to her son. But despite being drawn closer by the events surrounding Johanna's rescue, the awkwardness of things still unsaid hung thick between them; and Todd always left the house before Nellie could get up the courage to approach him.

He was still living at his clinic. This was one of the matters they hadn't had a chance to discuss. And she knew he would never broach the subject on his own. He'd wait for her decision. She knew he was giving her time to be absolutely certain.

The trouble was, she wasn't certain at all.

Certain she loved him – yes. Certain, again, that he loved her – she smiled to herself as she realized the answer to this, too, was yes. But she doubted whether that would be enough against the hold of a past that would only grow more vibrant by the day in the presence of Sweeney's daughter.

She rested a hand on the doorjamb and watched him a moment, taking in the sight of him: the slow, graceful, deliberate movements of his arms and hands as he went about his work, the way his clothing moved over his back and shoulders. She wondered how she'd lived this past week and a half without his dear, weary silhouette before her eyes.

The familiar longing stirred in her, and she wondered if he would hear it in her voice when she softly spoke his name.

When he turned and saw her, his brow creased, and he immediately left his task and crossed the room to her, saying "What're you doin' here? Everything all right?"

She nodded. "Fine, love."

He leaned his forearm on the other side of the doorframe, mirroring her posture. "You shouldn't be out yet," he said sternly. He was only inches away from her now, and she could practically feel the rumble in his voice.

She shrugged. "It's a nice spring day. You know I'll go mad if I have to stay in the house a minute longer."

He let out a long breath through his nose. "What I know is that you don't know your own limits, Nellie. How many times do I have to tell you to rest?..."

She ignored this. "How's Johanna?"

"She's well," he replied, his aspect softening. "I have a report from Anthony every day. She'll make a full recovery."

Nellie nodded and said "That's good," then moistened her lips and cleared her throat delicately before approaching her real concern. "Have you seen her yet?"

He shook his head. "Anthony tells me she's been askin' for me. Or rather, askin' for marvelous Doctor bloody Marlowe."

His eyes had gone distant, and a twinge of anxiety nipped at her heart as she asked, "Will you go?"

He turned his ebony gaze on her again, his face unreadable. "And if I do?" he said, so low she barely heard the words.

She drew a deep breath before answering. "I can't keep you away from your daughter, Sweeney."

She noticed him straighten, and his eyes narrowed slightly; but he didn't respond otherwise, so she continued: "But…it would be hard for me."

"What are you afraid of?" he asked, softly, not as a challenge but as though he really wanted to know.

She lowered her eyes to stare at the buttons of his waistcoat, unwilling to see his reaction to what she needed to say. "I'm afraid," she began, her voice quiet but steady, "that every time you look at Johanna you're going to think of Lucy – not just as she was eighteen years ago," she hurried on when she perceived that he was about to interrupt, "but later…in your shop…in the bake house…you'll think of why she ended up dead. That it was because of me lyin' to you. That'll be in your head every time you look at her, and it'll build up inside you till it destroys us, Sweeney."

His hand went to her chin, and he tried to gently lift her face to him but she resisted, and he didn't insist. He only said, "That's not ever goin' to happen."

But she knew it would. The dread of it was the only thing preventing her from taking him completely back, asking him to come home. She shook her head firmly and said "Johanna's got Lucy's face, Sweeney – "

"That's right. And she's got your blood."

Her head snapped up; she was stunned into silence by this. At first she didn't understand what he meant.

"Yours and mine, mingled together," he continued, tentatively moving his hand to her cheek – he hesitated a moment, his hand hovering over her skin – then finally touched his palm to her face. "She's _our_ child, Nellie. The child of our blood. How can I look at her and think of anyone else when it's _your_ life that flows in her veins? How can I see anything else but you sittin' in that chair givin' up some of yourself for her, and for me? She still breathes because of you. That's all I'll ever remember of you when I look at our child, my dear."

His other hand left the doorframe to cradle her face, his eyes shining with love. "You've borne me a daughter, Eleanor."

Impossible words – words she'd resigned herself to never hearing except in dreams, spoken in the one voice she would have given anything to hear saying them. She thought in fact that she must be dreaming now; but the light warmth of his lips on her forehead, slowly traveling across her temple, tickling her hair – the shiver she felt from that was real. Her eyelids fell closed, and in the darkness behind them all that existed was his voice speaking those words, echoing in her mind as gentle kisses rained down on her face, finally finding her lips and lingering there. She wasn't even aware of her arms encircling him, gathering him to her as his scent, his taste, the feeling of his strong back beneath his waistcoat, washed over her senses, intoxicating as wine. She felt she was melting away in his embrace and allowed herself to succumb, knowing now that nothing could ever come between them again.

No ghosts.

His teeth softly grazed her upper lip as the kiss ended, and when her head fell forward onto his shoulder his hand went to her hair, cradling her against him. When he spoke a moment later, he kept his mouth pressed to her cheek, murmuring as though afraid he might be overheard, struggling over the words as if making sure they were the right ones.

"I can never forget my old life. But…" He hesitated and let out a frustrated sigh, as he gently twisted one of her curls around his finger. "You're the one told me I feel things too deep. Nothin' goes as deep in me as you. I'll make you understand that if it takes me the rest of my life."

And the words were out of her mouth before she realized she was saying them.

"Come home, Sweeney."

His only response was a tightening of his arms around her, and she knew she wouldn't be going home alone.

When she pulled away – she had no idea how much time had passed – she smiled up at him, and the sight of his beloved, careworn features wearing that small, rare smile that belonged to her alone made her withdraw her hands from his back to smooth his forehead, caress the lines and angles of his face as if committing them to memory all over again. "You're a beautiful man, Sweeney Todd," she whispered.

And as her hands came down over his jaw and met at his chin, she caught sight of her own unadorned fingers, and was reminded once again of the tokens that should be there…that she'd so bitterly regretted throwing away, and had missed so much…

He must have noticed the change in her demeanor, for he said, "What is it?"

She laughed softly. "My rings…I…I don't suppose…"

But she stopped short when she realized he was loosening his cravat, untying it, letting it fall to the floor…slowly undoing the top buttons of his shirt. She thought this rather odd…Obviously he hadn't heard her remark about the rings…She was thrilled beyond words, of course, but…surely this could wait till they were home –

Then, as he parted his collar, she realized what he was doing. Around his neck was a thin strip of black leather, and suspended from it, resting on his pale chest, were her wedding band and the sapphire ring.

Her breath hitched in her throat, her eyes brimming with tears.

"You…you've had 'em there…all this time?"

He nodded. Then he lifted the leather strip over his head, untied it, and slipped the rings off. He took her right hand first, replacing the sapphire (his fingertip feathering over her palm as he did so), and the golden wedding band followed on her left; and just as he had the first time he'd placed it on her finger, he leaned forward and brushed her lips with his own.

"Never take them off again," he whispered.

Her gaze never wavered, deeply and pointedly searching his eyes as she replied, "Never give me a reason to."

His brows knit. "I'm sure I will…but never deliberately…and when I do…don't leave."

And she knew she wouldn't, so she shook her head, and smiled.

Under such circumstances, "Dr. Marlowe" felt perfectly justified in closing his practice early. Nellie stood on the stoop with him while he locked the door, then took his offered arm, heard him mumble something about "high time I went home to my wife", and they set off down the street.

* * *

When Sweeney walked in the front door just behind Nellie, he heard her call out "Toby! Mr. Todd's home," as though he'd just come in from a normal day at work.

He set his jaw when the boy came around the corner from the kitchen, wearing a stern expression. Toby hovered in the kitchen doorway for a moment, and Todd got the uncomfortable feeling they might be in for another altercation. Or at the very least a row.

The lad stuffed his hands into his pockets and came slowly down the short hallway, stopping before Todd and standing in silence with an odd expression, somewhere between resignation and lingering resentment. Nellie stood by watching them intently, and Sweeney could feel the hope and anxiety in her even where he stood.

After a lengthy moment, Sweeney made the first move by nodding curtly and saying "Toby."

The boy let out a huff of breath through his nose, then extended his hand; and when Sweeney took it, Toby said "Welcome home, Mr. T."

All this was, of course, much to Nellie's delight. Out the corner of his eye Sweeney observed her smiling and holding a fisted hand to her lips – barely able to contain her glee, by the look of her. Of course, he realized that, to Nellie, this gesture was as good as if he and the boy had embraced like father and son.

She maintained a similar attitude throughout dinner that evening, her joyous energy threatening to bubble over. Finally he had to simply chuckle at her, in his dark, low manner; and when she looked stung and said "What're you laughin' at?" he only chuckled the harder.

But she tired quickly – Sweeney could tell, even if she or Toby couldn't. In the middle of her having a game of draughts with her son, he told her to go up to bed.

"It's only half-seven!" she protested – weakly; but Sweeney expertly played his hand as a medical professional and she complied, ascending the stairs wearily.

When he followed some minutes later, he entered the room quietly, thinking she might already be sleeping. But he found her seated on the bed, her back to him, wearing her nightdress, drawing a brush though her hair, the low light of a single lamp gilding her skin, tinting the red of her corkscrew locks nearly scarlet. He drank in her beauty as he crossed the room, relishing the fact that she was his, his alone, always...When he drew near, she winked up at him and said, "You're starin', love."

He smirked and reached for the hairbrush, removing it gently from her hand and turning her slightly away from him. "Three hundred strokes, is it?" he said drily, as he sat behind her and began languidly running the brush, and his fingers, through her fiery tresses.

She sighed resignedly. "I don't think three _thousand_ would do much for this head o' hair, dear."

"Nonsense. Your hair is lovely, Nellie."

"D'you really think so?" she said, a smile in her voice.

"I've told you that before."

"Can't help it if I like to hear it again…"

He continued slowly working the brush through her silken curls, long past necessity, simply to keep feeling her hair in his hands. To prolong this situation, he said, "Toby seems to accept me bein' home again."

She absently examined her fingernails as she answered him. "I told him what you done. Pullin' me outta that closet, catchin' me before…" Her voice trailed off in a sigh, and it was a while before she spoke again. "Why'd you let Holmes live, anyhow, dear?" she asked casually. "Thought for sure you'd dress him out soon as you got hold of him."

Todd clenched his teeth at the memory – how close he'd come – far too close – to losing the dearest love he'd ever known. He breathed deep and said, "The instant he told me where he had you, I knew there was no time. Had to get to you right away. So I left him."

She twisted suddenly, and faced him, her brows knit. "You done that for me? You gave up killin' that bastard…for me?"

He sighed. "Killin' him wouldn't've been worth it if I didn't have you to celebrate with, pet."

"Oh, love…"

As he leaned forward to place the brush on the bedside table, he kissed her temple and nuzzled the soft wisps there. He wanted to stay this way with her, continue this closeness, even just this much and no more; but he remembered why he'd come into the room in the first place, what he'd intended to say to her...She was smiling softly, and raised a hand to touch his face as she placed a delicate kiss on his jaw.

"I…can sleep downstairs tonight, if you like," he forced himself to say.

Instantly the contentment vanished from her face, replaced by confusion. "What're you talkin' about? Why would you want to do that?"

"I don't," he said hoarsely. "I only meant, if you need more time – "

"If you had any idea…any _idea_ at all how I've missed you sleeping beside me – "

"Oh, but I do, my dear," he interrupted, his voice low but fervent.

Her expression softened. "Well then, you'll know how much I've wanted to share my nights with you again." Her hand was on the back of his neck, and she leaned into him, pressing her cheek against his, whispering "When I told you to come home I didn't mean halfway, Sweeney."

He burned for her when she knotted his hair in her hands and kissed him; he could feel her love and need and desire pouring into him, and it was everything he could do to bridle his own passion enough to push her gently away and choke out the words, "Nellie…you're tired, you're still recovering…"

"I've missed you so much, Sweeney…"

_Damn it…_"This isn't good for you."

"Like bloody hell it's not…"

Sweeney fervently wished she would remove her teeth from his earlobe. "I mean," he said huskily, "you've had enough…excitement for one day…"

She pulled back and looked at him with such a pleading light in her dusky eyes that he was very nearly overthrown. "I don't think it would – "

"The transfusion took a great toll on you," he cut her off. "Quite literally. I don't think you realize what an ordeal it really was, Nellie. You _need to rest_."

Before his eyes, she seemed to wilt a little – she opened her mouth to reply (or rather, to argue with him), but her eyes drifted shut, and she seemed only just able to manage "I _am_ very tired," in a resigned whisper.

He leaned over and put out the lamp, then pulled her into his arms and settled her in the bed, bringing the blankets over her shoulders and staying by her side, holding her close. She never protested the whole time, only fell against him and allowed him to move her where he would.

Several minutes passed before her sleepy voice broke the silence of the room.

"Sweeney?"

"Mm?"

A pause.

"If you do go to see Johanna…"

He tensed. _Don't start this again, Nell, not now…_

"Only if you want to, mind," she hurried on, "I'll come with you. If you want me to."

He couldn't have been more shocked if she'd said she was going to run away and join a convent. For a moment he was so overwhelmed that he couldn't speak.

"Sweeney?"

He nodded and pushed past the jumble of emotions coursing through him to say "All right," and kissed the top of her head. "Go to sleep now…"

She did, but he didn't. He wanted to remain aware, to savor every moment of this: her lying in his arms again, her deep, steady breathing as one with his own, the way her hair tickled his skin no matter which way he turned, the way she nestled into him in her sleep. He didn't know how he'd gotten through the nights without it all…He supposed he must have dozed off a few times; but whenever he woke again his eyes went back to her, and he passed that night in thoughts and remembrances, images flooding his mind of everything they'd been through, from that very first day he'd walked back through her door to this moment, until the silver light of dawn came stealing through the shutter slats, softly lighting his wife's face as she stirred and woke and smiled at him, saying "Mornin', love."

"How d'you feel?" he asked, giving her a small smile in return.

She fixed him with a stare full of meaning as she replied, "Well-rested," and slipped an arm round his back, drawing him to her…

He surrendered to her touch this time, more gentle and careful than he'd ever been, restraining his own urgency as much as he could so that it wouldn't be too much for her, shaking and trembling with the effort of forcing himself to move slowly, rocking her tenderly, her voice sweeter to him than music as she sighed his name in his ear, transporting him until he felt his heart would shatter in ecstasy.

It wasn't as though they'd never been apart – quite to the contrary. Their former separation was palpable between them, both almost overly aware of it; and it only drove them together more powerfully, made them take all the more delight in each other, burying themselves in their love.

"Are you all right?" he asked, as he let his euphoria settle over him while they held each other in the calm, wishing he could keep her wrapped in his arms like this forever.

He felt her smile against his throat as she whispered, "Never better, my love…"

He clutched her closer to him, if that were possible, his heart still racing, and said "I love you, Eleanor," in a deep, fervent growl; and she responded in kind, with a kiss to his collarbone.

"Get some more sleep," he told her after a time, and she squeezed her arms around him and murmured "Stay with me…"

"I will," he promised. "But I want you to rest now. We've got a big day ahead of us."

"What're we doin'?" she asked, slumber already infusing her voice.

He paused a moment, testing the words in his mind. "You and me," he finally said, "…we're gonna go and see our daughter."

* * *

**A/N: **You know the drill...**please review** and let me know if this was all right. I'm pretty pleased with the first half but not the second...Something seems missing but I don't know what it is, grrrr...


	15. Reunion

**Disclaimers:** See Prologue.

**A/N: **Sorry for the OOC-ness of Sweeney in that last chapter. It was brought to my attention by someone (not on this site) who's been reading this story for me, trying to help, and only just last night was I informed of this little factoid. Yikes. Ah well, guess I just dropped the ball and I do apologize...

But **OY**, go to my profile page and check out the image created by the insanely artistic BloodyPumpkinhead. It's spectacularly cool. Based on the Fleet Street Flashback ("who will make my tea?") in ch. 10 of this story.

I think there will be one more chapter after this, and then an epilogue.

I'm nervous about this chapter...I'm not sure if it works _at all_. There were so many ways I could have gone with it; this just ended up flowing the best. Or maybe I'm just lazy ;) Anyway, hope you enjoy.

Oh, and an "alienist" was the 19th century equivalent of an abnormal psychologist today; they dealt with people considered "alienated" from themselves and the wider world, i.e. the insane. Alienists typically worked with criminal cases.

* * *

**14**

**Reunion.**

_Anthony:_

_We are coming to see Johanna this afternoon. I think it high time she received a proper medical assessment, and as we discussed, bringing in a third party would not be advisable. I am aware of the shock she may receive on seeing me; so I ask that you prepare her as well as you can before my arrival._

_Do not consider refusing me. _

_ST_

"Is there any reply, Mr. Hope?"

Anthony stood in the doorway, leaning heavily on his cane. He closed his mouth and cleared his throat when he realized he was gaping at poor Tobias, who'd delivered this…highly disturbing missive.

_Today…_this afternoon…It was only a quarter past eight now, but still…that didn't give Anthony very much time to tactfully inform his wife that her beloved Dr. Marlowe, who'd brazenly plucked her life from Holmes' clutches, was the same as the crazed barber who'd very nearly deprived her of that life; and that the woman who'd given her own life's blood so Johanna might live, had cheerfully assisted in shedding the blood of others. Yes, he'd informed Todd that Johanna had been voicing a desire to personally thank the surgeon who'd saved her, and especially to express her gratitude to his wife, who was equally responsible for Johanna's deliverance from such a grisly fate as Holmes had in store. But Anthony had hardly thought such a meeting would be possible…not with Johanna in the emotional state she was suffering…and _certainly_ not so soon…

When Anthony had inexplicably walked out of Holmes' dungeon unscathed, he'd gone to Todd's office right away, recalling that the barber-surgeon's wife had mentioned they were headed there. Todd had expressly forbidden that his daughter go to the hospital, sending her home with Anthony instead the instant she'd shown signs of regaining consciousness and giving him strict and detailed orders for her care. None of them could afford the inevitable questions that would arise, and the resulting involvement of the authorities. Anthony himself was associated with Todd now; the law would certainly wish to know why he had assisted the man, instead of turning him in immediately…All of them were in the same proverbial boat.

And then there had been the telegram, arriving only yesterday…

Anthony shook that recollection from his mind and forced himself to focus on the issue immediately at hand. The telegram could be dealt with later…right now, he had a decision to make. Todd _would_ appear on his doorstep this afternoon, and he would not leave without seeing his daughter – of that Anthony was certain. Yet her nightmares had returned in force – their subject matter much closer to home this time – and Anthony was wary of resurrecting Fleet Street in her mind. He hadn't even told her about the telegram, which of course would need to be done some time soon…It was bad enough that she remembered what Holmes had done, had been awake and aware enough for quite a long while to realize that he was taking her blood, watching it flow through the tubes he'd attached to her veins. And what bothered her most profoundly, as she told her husband in hushed tones in the darkness of their room, in the dead of night, as if she felt safer uttering the words in this setting – what plagued her dreams more than anything else was the fact that she didn't know why – what had Holmes _done_ with her blood once he'd taken it? What _purpose_ had he wanted and used it for?...

Anthony had only held her in response to this; yet his own blood boiled at the idea. The same concerns had drifted through his mind too, more than once, while he watched his darling sleeping in his arms as she healed; and the possible answers that always rose to the surface of his thoughts were far from pleasant. He had a long road ahead of him in helping his wife pass through this distress.

But what nagged at him most was the fear.

His own fear, for Johanna's sanity. She didn't behave or talk like a madwoman – quite the opposite, and that was what frightened him. He'd expected her to scream, cry, spend most of the day in hysterics after what she'd been through. But this only happened when a nightmare grabbed hold of her. Awake, she was exceptionally quiet, speaking of these events, when she spoke at all, in far too calm a manner.

_She's in shock,_ Todd had written in response to Anthony's disquiet over this behavior. _She'll come round in time, but keep a close watch on her…_

Anthony supposed this advice was coming more from Todd's concern as a father than as a medical man. He wasn't an alienist, after all…and as the days went by, Anthony was growing more and more convinced that an alienist's intervention would be necessary. But that would involve Johanna's baring of all their secrets, an investigation of Holmes…of Todd…of Anthony himself. And he didn't know what on earth would happen then…

He only knew that his wife depended on him, and he couldn't leave her alone in this world. Now more than ever he was convinced of that. He'd already failed to keep his promise to her once. He would not do so again.

"Er…Mr. Hope…"

Anthony blinked, ran a hand through his hair. No…it would not be wise to refuse Sweeney Todd…Anthony suspected that the man would find a way to see his daughter no matter what. Far better that she should be at least somewhat prepared before it came to that…

He nodded. "Yes. Tell him yes. But tell him to wait till late in the afternoon."

Tobias offered his own nod, then turned and jogged off.

Anthony softly shut the door behind him, his heart beginning to race. What does one say?...how was he going to –

"Anthony?"

_Damn._ Not even enough time to rehearse the words in his mind.

"Who was that at the door, darling?"

_This is it…_

He swallowed, drew a deep, bracing breath, and clumped up the stairs.

* * *

Anthony eased himself onto the edge of the bed, using his cane for balance. He'd graduated from the crutches some days ago; but the doctors had informed him that the sleek, black walking stick, and the limp it was meant to alleviate, would be his companion for the rest of his life.

He was barely twenty-one, and he felt like an old man.

Johanna was sitting in bed, propped on a mountain of pillows, holding a book loosely in her hand and observing her husband with a curious, wide-eyed expression. "Who was at the door?" she repeated; and he smiled and laid a hand on her arm.

"That was the Marlowes' boy," he answered; and before he could go on his wife interrupted him excitedly: "The Marlowes? Are they here?"

_God help me,_ Anthony prayed fervently, as he gently squeezed Johanna's arm and replied "No, no, it was only their boy, giving me a message."

She laid her book aside and looked at him, smiling expectantly.

He pulled a shaky breath into his lungs and plowed on: "Dr. Marlowe and his wife would very much like to come and see you this afternoon."

Her smile widened. He patted her arm to let her know he wasn't through yet.

"I…There's something you need to know about Marlowe, darling…he isn't…That's not his real name."

Her pretty brow furrowed at this, her smile easing off just a fraction; but she remained silent, waiting for him to continue.

"You know he saved your life – "

"Yes," she interrupted, "he and his wife…God only knows what might've become of me if they hadn't."

"I'm glad you feel that way, Johanna, because…" His voice was trembling now, as was his hand; and his wife noticed it and said "Anthony?...What is it?..."

"Marlowe would never harm you, Johanna, you must know that above all else…and he's got very good reasons for that…"

Her smile vanished altogether now. "Anthony, you're scaring me…"

_God in heaven, Hope, calm down…you're making things worse with your own nerves…_

"There's no reason to be frightened. Do you trust me?"

She nodded. "Of course I do."

"Then believe me when I tell you that I would never let Marlowe near you if I weren't absolutely certain you'd be safe with him."

"What…what's wrong with him?"

There it was again – that eerie calm descending over her voice, infusing her face and her eyes, almost a dreamy expression, too serene, too quiet.

"His real name…"

There was really only one way to do this. No possible chance of softening it.

"…is Todd, dearest. Todd, the barber from Fleet Street."

Her head gave a little shake at the name and she blinked, as though she'd almost forgotten it and was trying to recall its significance. For a moment she looked confused. "Is he…is he a relative?..."

For a fleeting, marvelous instant the thought flashed across Anthony's mind that he had here a golden opportunity to wriggle out of this entire mess. _Yes!_ he could say, _Marlowe is Todd's twin brother!_ But such a lie would be bound to reveal itself eventually; and Anthony was a terrible liar in any event. The bare _thought_ of deceiving his wife made him queasy.

"No, my love," he said gently. "The same man. Todd himself. He's been here, in America, for the past two years."

She said nothing. She went so still, Anthony thought she stopped breathing.

"And his wife – "

"That woman," she broke in, her voice a monotone. "That…_baker_?"

"Yes."

_Now_ the fear began rising in her eyes. "She knew…_him_…didn't she…he's the one who introduced me to her…she was helping him – "

"No – no, Johanna. She didn't know what Holmes was doing. I promise you. She helped you, she saved you. At very great risk to her own life. She was nearly killed by Holmes herself. Remember that."

Silence reigned between them for an unmeasurable time. Johanna's face was unreadable: she looked away from her husband, her eyes focused on the bedroom door. Anthony wasn't sure if she was thinking about all this, trying to take it in, or had simply been so stunned by this information that her mind had gone blank…He waited as long as he could, trying to give her the time he knew she must need; but at length he began to fear she might stay this way forever, locked in her own little shell, and he felt he must speak or lose her. "Johanna?...Darling, say something. Speak to me, please…"

Her eyes narrowed, and after a moment she asked, in a faraway voice, "How…how are they here?..."

Anthony shook his head. "I don't know the details of their escape from London; but I don't think that matters now."

Johanna's eyes snapped shut, and she covered them with her hand. Her breath was coming faster now, shallow and thin. "I…I don't understand…he helped you…and they saved me, the both of them…but he murdered my guardian…"

"That was also to save you," Anthony jumped in. "Turpin was filth, Johanna, you know that, he would've violated you; he sent you to a _madhouse_, and were it not for Todd you'd be there still!"

"Why?..." Her voice was almost a whimper.

"It was Todd who got me into Fogg's," he barreled on, desperate to make her understand. "And if Turpin had lived, God only knows what he'd have done to me for saving you, sent me away or had me hanged – "

_"Why?!"_

The force of this cry, a wailing, piercing plea, made Anthony start. Never had he heard her speak with such power, such strength. She was trembling now, violently, the color draining from her skin. "They've done such evil…"

"Yes. But – "

"Why would they do this for us?"

His heart skipped unpleasantly. "I can't…that's for Todd to tell you himself."

Then she rounded on him, and the glare in her eyes took him aback. "Why are you so friendly with him?" she hissed.

"Because without him, you would be in a grave right now – "

_"I would rather!"_ she screamed, suddenly grabbing hold of his lapel and shaking him, tears beginning to pour down her face. "I would rather be dead than to have that…than be in debt to…_why didn't you let me die?!_"

And then she started clawing at herself, scratching her arms and face so deeply that she drew blood in places, shrieking unintelligibly through her wild sobbing while her husband, beyond astonished, struggled to still her hysteria, first grasping her wrists –

He called her name, but she didn't hear his voice through her own screaming; and her fury or madness or _something_ was making her stronger than he could ever have dreamed, as she wrenched her hands free of his grip and turned her attacks on him, swatting and slashing and beating at him…_"Johanna!"_ he shouted, over and over, louder each time, to no avail; and when he saw that her thrashing about wasn't stopping and he started to fear she would do serious harm to herself, he threw himself onto her, clasping his arms around hers, pinning them to her sides.

This seemed to calm her somewhat – she went limp, panting and exhausted, and he let his guard down for a fraction of a second, preparing to let her go –

Johanna managed to free one of her hands as his grip slackened, and began flailing and howling again, pummeling Anthony with her closed fists, landing them along his ribcage just where they would do the most damage, driving him off of her…

He scrambled back from her, off of the bed, and did the only thing left, the only thing that entered his mind – his hand struck out in a blur of motion and caught her square on the cheek.

He felt sick. He stood shaking, his breathing totally beyond his control, coming in short, shuddering gulps. He immediately wanted to apologize, but knew he couldn't. She had to know how dangerous her raving had become. It wasn't a hard slap – wasn't meant to be – he'd only meant to wake her up, jolt her out of this frightening state. And at first, it appeared he'd succeeded: she stopped moving with a sharp gasp, then went quiet.

But the look in her eyes made him go cold inside.

He'd only seen that look once in his life: when Sweeney Todd had wrathfully ordered him out of his shop when he'd lost his chance with Turpin. Anthony hadn't understood Todd's vehemence at the time; it was only later, in looking back, that he realized why the barber had been so violently agitated.

And now, the face before him wore a shocked calm; but the eyes…

For the first time, Anthony saw Johanna's father in her, in those fierce, flashing eyes, and it paralyzed him.

Then the resemblance faded, as abruptly as it had come, and the uncanny composure that Anthony found so troubling descended on his wife once again, as if nothing had happened: as if she hadn't nearly clawed her own eyes out or come close to re-injuring her husband's ribs

"I have questions that need answering," she said, sounding nearly like her old self, as she glanced demurely at her hands, now folded and resting innocently in her lap. "Show him in when he arrives."

* * *

Sweeney Todd was standing at the window in Anthony Hope's sitting room, his gaze burning through the panes but not really seeing anything beyond, a dull pain steadily growing behind his eyes from the hard clenching of his jaw. Nellie was at his side, quietly resting her hand on his arm.

"I didn't know what to do, Mr. Todd," Anthony was saying, near tears judging by the trembling quality of his voice. "She was…frantic. I've never seen her like that before."

"There there, dear," said Nellie, turning to the lad. "Got to keep your own head on."

He didn't appear to hear her. "Is she…has she…"

Todd knew what Anthony wanted to ask. _Has she gone mad?..._He closed his eyes. No. The possibility could not even be admitted. He shook his head, but the gesture was more to banish the unthinkable than a confident assertion that it couldn't be true. Nellie's hand subtly tightened on his arm. "No," he said, trying to convince himself. "She's been through too much. That's all."

"Mr. Todd, if you…can do anything at all…"

Nellie left him then, going to Anthony and saying "Come on, dear, let's you and me go to the kitchen and have a bit of a drink, it'll calm you down – "

"No," Todd said, tearing himself from the window and heading to the stairs. "You're coming with me."

He brushed past her, vaguely registering the happy expression on her face, and heard Anthony rise, his cane thumping on the thin rug. "I'll come with you," he said, falling into step behind Todd, who didn't stop to wait for him to catch up until the three of them had reached the landing.

It didn't hit Todd till he saw Anthony's hand on the doorknob.

He was about to meet his little girl.

Under ordinary circumstances this would have been an occasion for joy. Had things been different…had his family been intact on his return…even had he made other decisions, controlled his murderous passions long enough to make another way to get her back…if he'd waited…he'd be able to simply enjoy the sweet anticipation of laying eyes on her, telling her _"I'm your father"_ and seeing her smile…How often he'd dreamed of such a moment, all through the fifteen years he'd spent in hell, all during his time on the _Bountiful_, at every step of his way back home through the London streets, until that dream had been dashed to nothing. And now, all he could think of was that she might recoil from him; and if he wasn't confident of her welcome to begin with, his doubts were only worsened by Anthony's relation of what had occurred just that morning. On the one hand, he thought it more imperative now than ever that he be there for his daughter – if ever there was a time she'd needed a father, it was now, when she'd been through more than anyone should ever have to suffer, so young, so innocent…

On the other, he wondered if, for these same reasons, this introduction might not be a very bad idea.

"I'll go ahead," said Anthony, "to get her ready for you."

Todd nodded curtly, and heard Nellie's voice beside him. "D'you want me to go in first?" she asked him.

He considered this for a moment, then shook his head. It would only prolong the inevitable. "No," he said, not looking at her.

Then Anthony opened the door.

"Darling?" the young man said, almost timidly, inching into the room as though confronting a ferocious wild animal. He was blocking the door, Todd couldn't see past him; his heart kicked horribly and he suddenly wished he were anywhere but here…"They're here, sweetheart…"

He stepped to the side, allowing Todd to enter the room.

He stopped breathing when he saw her.

She was the living image of her mother, as Lucy had been at that age…Eighteen, yes; he and Lucy had gotten engaged when she was just eighteen, and he was twenty – the same ages, Todd realized, that his daughter and her husband were now…they'd been so very _young_, he and his Lucy…Suddenly the weight of the long, hard years and the changes they'd wrought came crashing down on him as though they'd all happened at once, in an instant, rather than piecemeal over nearly two decades.

His daughter was regarding him with rather a placid expression, but he noticed her swallow hard and try to hide it – the only sign of her anxiety. To Sweeney's surprise, she was standing at the window – he'd expected to find her resting in bed in the wake of the trauma she'd been through. He didn't speak – couldn't, really. So he waited for her, and the first words out of her mouth couldn't have shocked him more, so common and simple were they.

"You look different," she said quietly.

He could only shake his head minutely, in confusion.

"When I saw you last," she explained, "you had a white bit just here," gesturing to her own hair on the side that corresponded to his characteristic feature.

"Oh," Sweeney noised. "Been dyein' it. So it's…"

"So you won't be recognized."

He nodded.

"Like the mark of Cain," she remarked evenly; and he smirked and replied, "Yes…a bit like that."

They stood in silence for a few moments, until Johanna's eyes cut over to Anthony and she said, "I'd like to be alone with Mr. Todd, please."

Anthony's brows knit. "Are you sure?..."

She nodded.

"All right," he agreed – but his voice was uncertain. "I'll be just outside the door, if you want me."

He limped out, and Nellie started to follow; but Johanna's voice stopped her: "No – Mrs. Todd, please stay. I need to speak with you as well."

Nellie glanced to her husband, and he gave her a nearly imperceptible nod. So she remained, hovering near the door Anthony had just closed behind him.

Then it was just the three of them: Sweeney Todd, his wife, and his child, standing in the most intensely awkward silence Todd had ever experienced. He felt he had to say something, and it took every fiber of his strength to keep from telling his daughter who he really was.

"I'm…glad to see you well, Johanna," he said at last.

She gazed at him steadily. "I thank you for your concern, Mr. Todd. And for the fact that, were it not for you, I would not be standing here."

Realization dawned in Todd's mind, and a sardonic smile began tugging at a corner of his upper lip. "Is that why you don't appear to fear me?"

Johanna's own small smile mirrored her father's as she replied, "There's no appearance about it, Mr. Todd. Indeed I _don't_ fear you. Not anymore. I owe you – both of you – my life," she began. "And I want to know why."

For the first time since he'd asked Nellie to marry him, Todd felt an unpleasant cold creep through him, radiating from his spine. He searched his mind for an answer, and all that came was, "Your husband asked for my help."

"But why?" asked Johanna. At any other time Sweeney would have been proud of his daughter's astuteness, but just at this moment he cursed it. She went on: "He never would have approached you, knowing what you are. What you're responsible for. You're a monster." Her eyes shifted to Nellie then, and she added, "Both of you are. Yet you risked much to get me away from my guardian, and now you've risked your lives for mine. Why?"

_She can't know,_ Sweeney told himself, over and over, hammering the words into his mind with every breath he drew. _It would destroy her…_

He moved to the window and stood at the end opposite Johanna, staring out to avoid her eyes. "I…knew your mother and father," he said. "Long ago…I was…very close to both of them. I tried to protect you for their sakes."

She took an eager step towards him, but then collected herself and halted. "I was always told my father was sent away as a criminal – "

"He was innocent," Todd jumped in, a bit too emphatically. Then he chuckled inside, thinking that his sentence had merely been retrojected: time served for future crimes…But he swallowed that thought, and told Johanna the story of the gross injustice done against her father at Turpin's hands, making use of Nellie's old deceit when he came to Lucy's fate. "Your mother took poison," was all he said.

It wasn't a lie.

"That's the other reason I went after your guardian," he continued. "For your sake, yes; but your mother and father needed justice done for 'em, and slime like Turpin are beyond the law."

"But what of the others you destroyed?" Johanna asked. "Why men who had nothing to do with what happened to my father?"

Sweeney shot a glance to Nellie. Her eyes told him she had no answer for this – he was on his own, for once.

"I don't expect you to understand, Johanna," he said. "Part of it was…a rehearsal of sorts. Part of it was knowin' I'd be riddin' the world of vermin like the judge, or keepin' innocent men from fallin' into their hands."

"And what about…" Johanna's voice faded as her eyes drifted to Nellie.

"Times were hard, dearie," the baker answered. "Forgive me for sayin' it, but you couldn't possibly understand just how hard they could get, what with livin' in the judge's house, always havin' the best of everything. Three good solid meals a day and all that. That first batch o' pies I made…that was the first decent thing I ate in I couldn't tell you how long. Put some meat back on my own bones, it did. And then it put clothes on my back, and my son's. And aside from all that, I wanted to help Mr. Todd."

Johanna was shaking her head disbelievingly, her eyes narrowed in defiance. "None of that justifies anything."

"Those are the reasons, love," said Nellie simply.

Johanna's eyes flicked to the floor. "And do you still…"

Nellie shook her head. "Just a means to an end, dear."

Johanna turned away from her then, redirecting her gaze to the window, and was silent for some time before speaking again. "Anthony told me he saved you from the sea, Mr. Todd," she said at length, her voice distant.

Sweeney nodded. "Because I was so close to your father, I was implicated in the charge against him," he invented on the spot. He really hadn't planned this out at all, and was beginning to sorely regret his lack of foresight. "We were in the colony together, and he…"

His voice trailed off, but Johanna apparently understood his intention, for she finished his thought. "He's dead, then."

He nodded. "I'm sorry."

"I was only told he'd been deported. I'd always hoped…" She broke off, shaking her head.

"He was a good man, dear," Nellie said quietly.

"Did you know him as well, then?" Johanna asked absently.

"Yes, I did. He and your mother were tenants o' mine for a while. And so were you, for a bit, when you was just a baby."

Johanna turned at that, and faced her. "I lived with you, with my parents? Before Judge Turpin?"

"Mm," Nellie affirmed with a nod. "Sweet little thing, you were."

Then Johanna began glancing between the two of them, addressing them both. "There's so much I've wondered…so many questions I've always had…can you tell me of my mother?"

Sweeney looked to his wife, and she gave him a quick nod.

His eyes went back to the window, rather than to his daughter. "If you want to know what she looked like," he said, "all you need do is look in the mirror."

He heard Johanna gasp softly. "I…I look like her, then?"

He nodded.

"Got your father's smile, though," Nellie offered.

"But," Johanna went on, her voice trembling a bit now, and a little breathless; "What was she _like_, my mother?..."

"She was a very kind person," Sweeney began. "Very shy, too…had a soft voice, you could barely hear her when she spoke to you sometimes…"

He started to drift into a bit of a daze, retreating into his memory to pull out any detail at all that might answer his daughter's question.

"She was…too innocent," he murmured dreamily. "Too sheltered, and your father didn't help that. Wanted to wrap her up in cotton wool, he did, never let her out of his sight…that was a mistake…"

The room Todd was standing in had vanished around him, and he found himself in those old, familiar surroundings: lying on the hearth rug, playing with his baby, his golden-haired beauty laughing at the pair while she…did something…was she knitting? sewing buttons on his shirt?...He'd seen this in his dreams, both waking and sleeping, countless times; but the images were faded now, and flickering; the colors were washed out, the fabrics fraying…

"She was…a good, beautiful, naïve young woman who never did harm to anyone or anything and only ever got pain and sufferin' for it, and an end…what she didn't deserve."

And his daughter's voice pulled him back to the present as she softly said:

"Did you love her?"

Sweeney blinked – whipped around to face her – reeling inside, feeling suddenly lightheaded. "What?..."

"I can hear it in your voice," said Johanna. "You seem to remember her so fondly, I can almost see in your face when you speak of her that you loved my mother. I'm sorry for being so forward, sir, but…"

Sweeney wasn't sure he'd be able to get these words out, but he managed a hoarse "Yes. I did, once."

She stepped towards him then, slowly, timidly, as uncertain and cautious as if she'd been stealing up on a sleeping bear. She stopped an arm's length away and muttered, as though to herself, "You…is it you?..."

And then a tentative hand reached out as if to touch his face, but pulled back, suspended in the space between them, and she whispered, "Are you my father?..."

_Yes!_ his mind was screaming; but his head was moving back and forth and he was saying "No," over and over…

But Johanna kept repeating "You _are_…_you_ are the man Judge Turpin sent away…"

"No, no no no …"

"…you didn't leave my father dead in the prison; you're the same man!"

"…no…"

"You'd never kill the judge if you were only my father's friend, you'd only do all that for what he'd done to _you_…you'd never do everything you've done for _me_ if you were only my father's friend…you did it all…everything…because…"

Now she was grabbing at his lapels, her voice rising in a jumble of emotions, anger and grief and elation battling one another for dominance as she cried "Tell me!...my father isn't dead!...it's you, _you!_ – you evil, twisted, brutish…"

While she shrieked epithets at him, Sweeney grasped her wrists – out of the corner of his eye he saw Nellie take a step forward, then stop – Johanna was hurling herself at him, screaming, sobbing; he couldn't restrain her, had to let her go – and she fell against him, her arms wrapped fiercely around him, and her face was buried in his coat while she continued calling him a fiend and a murderer and a heartless, soulless butcher.

Todd went still as stone, his hands held aloft in the same position they'd been in when he'd released Johanna from his grip. Now, as she choked out her hatred of him while clinging to him as if for dear life, he slowly, hesitantly closed his arms and returned her embrace.

He didn't know what to say. He didn't know how to be her father anymore. All he could do was whisper "My sweet Johanna…"

The door practically exploded, it was thrown open with such force; and Antony stumbled into the room shouting "I heard her scream…what happened, is everythi – "

Then Nellie's voice, calm and soothing as she ushered him out of the room: "Everything's fine, dear…"

* * *

"I don't think she'll need an alienist, Anthony."

The three of them – Todd, Nellie, and the former sailor – were seated at the kitchen table, each holding a glass of good strong rum. Nellie had joked that Anthony's laudanum might serve them all better after what they'd been through of late, and that had sent both her and the young man into hysterics while Sweeney looked on, scowling and observing mirthlessly that tincture of opium was nothing to play with. Finally he had to turn aside so the twitching corner of his mouth couldn't be seen.

He'd held Johanna for a long while, till her tears and cries subsided, and then walked her over to her bed so she could rest. She protested that she had "so many more questions"; but he'd told her there was plenty of time for all that, and had stayed by her side, waiting until she fell asleep to creep from the room and join his wife and son-in-law downstairs.

He wasn't allowing this reunion with his daughter to affect him too much. She clearly didn't know what to make of him yet – still distrustful of him, and with good reason; still repulsed by his crimes, yet grateful to him for her life. And besides – Sweeney himself didn't know what was going to happen now. It was highly unlikely that Anthony would stay in the city with Holmes still about; and the barber-surgeon had a feeling it was getting high time for him and his wife and the boy (what was Toby to him anyhow, he often wondered?...a ward?...) to relocate as well. He'd learned too often and too pointedly that attachments could be ripped apart on a seeming whim of fate. Even now, he sometimes regretted letting Nellie so close to him, because as he'd recently discovered, losing her now would be unthinkable. Unbearable. But in that one case, with that one person, he'd allowed it to go too far for too long, until nothing could prevent him from becoming irrevocably attached to her. He didn't want the same thing to happen with Johanna – didn't want to start growing close to her only to be torn away from her all over again. Better to just cut things off at the root.

"I think some time apart is best," he was telling Anthony now. "All she needs is some time to work things out for herself."

Anthony shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Yes…Mr. Todd, that's another thing I wanted to talk to you about…"

He paused for a steeling breath and a bracing swig of rum before continuing.

"I've had a telegram," he said, "from Scotland Yard."

Sweeney exchanged a glance with his wife. "Go on."

"Well…they want me to go back to London as soon as possible and give testimony. Do you think it safe to bring Johanna with me? I mean, so soon after her ordeal."

Sweeney considered this a moment before deciding it would be far from safe. He shook his head.

"Well," Anthony continued, "I can't leave her on her own…I wondered…would you look after her while I'm gone?"

A devilish sneer came to Sweeney's face. "Look after her while you're off givin' testimony against us, hey?"

Anthony looked stung. "Mr. Todd…that's not quite fair, you know. I didn't ask for any of this."

Todd let out a long breath through his nose. Better to assist Anthony in returning to London, than that the authorities should come looking for him. Besides, the lad was obviously determined to go, and Johanna still needed care.

"Pet?" Sweeney said, looking to Nellie.

She nodded. "We'll take good care of your Johanna, Anthony," she said.

The young man visibly relaxed. "Thank you. And…there is one other thing. I'm going to tell the police about Holmes. Anonymously, in a letter. I…simply can't live with myself anymore, knowing there are other people in that place and doing nothing to stop it. But I recall you being concerned that an investigation of Holmes might expose you, so I'm going to wait until you decide whether you'll stay in the city or not."

Why did the man have to be so bloody righteous?...

Nellie sighed. "S'pose we _should_ be gettin' out of here soon. I can't go back to the shop for obvious reasons; and I don't trust Holmes not to try some other way to get to us when he gets bored and starts to regret lettin' us go. Never liked this town all that much, anyhow," she finished, taking a drink. Sweeney did the same, mostly to hide his smirk. His wife never liked _any_ town much if it wasn't within a three-mile radius of coastline.

"I think Johanna will be well enough that we can take her someplace quiet till you get back," said Todd.

"How will I find you?"

Sweeney looked to Nellie then, and a small, knowing smile passed between them. "I'll give you the address of one John Morse. Friend of ours, he'll know where we'll be."

Anthony's brow furrowed. "John Morse," he repeated. "John Morse, I've heard that name before…isn't he connected with the Borden case the papers have been full of?..."

Todd finished his drink and rose, and his wife took the cue to follow, the two of them sharing a glance full of very particular memories at the mention of the Fall River incident. "What did I tell you that day, Anthony?" he said, as he picked up his coat and made his way to the front door. "Don't ask questions."

* * *

**A/N:** For the love of all that's good, holy, and covered in chocolate, **please review** and tell me if I'm getting this anywhere close to right. That OOC thing has really thrown me off *sigh* Thanks for reading!!


	16. Repayment

**Disclaimers:** See Prologue.

**A/N:** Well, here it is...the last chapter. I'm sorry it's taken so long to update this. The delay was due to my indecision as to whether or not to continue this series. That answer would determine how this last chapter and the epilogue must be written. And it took me a while to reach that decision. But...this is the end. I've decided that this series has run its course. A third installment, I feel, would sputter out of fuel in a very short time. After all, I'm running out of famous 1890's murderers to challenge our heroes ;) There will, however, be an epilogue after this, so watch for that in the next few days.

And...I _will_ be writing another multi-chapter. I won't give anything away just yet, but you can expect my trademark historical fiction, combined with lots of violence and delectable Sweenett goodness :D

This is really a tying-up-loose-ends chapter. Let me know how you like it :)

* * *

**15**

**Repayment.**

Sweeney hated to leave his wife's side; but this had to be done. They were planning on leaving Chicago in two days...but if he succeeded tonight, they may not have to rush their departure.

He slipped from the bed without waking her and pulled on his trousers, gathering up the rest of his clothes to change downstairs so there was no chance of Nellie being disturbed by his movements. He was careful to tread lightly – he also had to worry about waking Johanna, who'd been with them since Anthony had left the day before and had, on Todd's order, required the use of Toby's room (the lad himself was relegated to sleeping on the parlor sofa). When he was fully dressed, he took writing materials from the small slant-top desk, thinking it would be best to leave her a note. He certainly didn't want her thinking he'd gone back to his old ways, getting up in the middle of the night to drown his nightmares with gin – especially so soon after their reconciliation. What to say in this note was another matter. He was far from comfortable with the idea of leaving his thoughts lying around in the open for anyone to see. Finally, he decided on a neutral tone.

_Nell,_ he wrote. _Gone out. Back soon. Don't worry. _And he signed it tersely: _S._

He crept back upstairs and stole into the bedroom. Nellie was lying on her side, her back to the door, just as he'd left her – she must be sleeping soundly. _Perfect,_ he thought, as he leaned forward and stretched out his arm, placing the note on the bedside table, where he thought she'd be likely to see it if she happened to wake before he got back –

She stirred then, and turned over, facing him. He froze, stopped breathing, his fingertips hovering on the top edge of the notepaper, waiting for her to wake up.

But she didn't.

Todd didn't breathe till he'd left the room and shut the door behind him, twisting the knob before pulling it closed, so the catch wouldn't make a sound. Then he silently slipped downstairs once more, pausing only to enter the parlor again and retrieve one ivory-handled razor from its place of safekeeping in the armoire.

When he reached the front door, his heart gave a hard thump as a small voice sounded behind him:

"Mr. T?..."

Todd spun round to see Toby at the end of the hall, peering out from the kitchen, where he'd obviously been indulging his own late-night gin proclivity. The barber immediately held a finger to his lips, then turned his eyes to the ceiling. Toby seemed to understand the gesture, but not its implication: he came down the hall and mouthed the words _Where you goin'?_

Sweeney's lips silently formed the name: _Holmes._

Toby's eyes widened in comprehension of exactly what his guardian was up to. He nodded slowly, then pointed to himself and jabbed a finger at Todd. The barber shook his head, and Toby sighed and nodded reluctantly: the boy wanted to come along; but this was something Todd had to do on his own.

When Toby retreated back down the hall, Sweeney stole out into the night, threading his way along side streets and alleys, till he came to his "shop", where he procured a hammer he'd kept on hand for minor work on the place, as well as a bull's-eye lantern, which he did not yet light. Thus armed, he set off once more, keeping to out-of-the-way roads until he came within sight of Holmes' castle-like monstrosity.

But rather than heading for the hotel, Todd crept towards the drug store opposite and ducked round the back of the building, approaching the chained door and wasting no time in taking his hammer to the padlock. He cringed at the amount of noise he was making; but the lock was broken soon enough and he made short work of freeing the handle of its masses of looped chain.

Standing in Holmes' storeroom now, Sweeney lit his lantern and arranged its window to shed a wide beam of light. He then took the path Toby had used to lead them out of the main cellar – down the stairs, through the small, dark basement room, along the tiny passage to Holmes' dungeon. To Todd's surprise, it was pitch black, the gas jets dismal and lifeless.

He stuck the hammer through his belt, withdrew the razor, and opened it.

"Holmes!" he called, stepping forward, his shoes _clack-clack_ing on the damp stone as he moved through the stygian chambers. When he'd been here last, he'd only seen as much of this subterranean house of torture as necessary to find Johanna. Now, he would have to take his time.

Passing an alcove, he found another of Holmes' dissecting tables in addition to the one he already knew existed, the wracked shell of a young woman strapped upon it, one leg raggedly severed near the hip. Sweeney was about to pass by – he wasn't on a rescue mission – before the thought hit him: if this were Johanna…

And then he realized it might as well _have_ been Johanna. So he ducked into the small space and placed two fingers on the girl's pulse point at the neck.

Dead.

He wasted no more time. Quickening his step, he canvassed the rest of the cellar, passing the quicklime pits, the room Johanna had been kept in…the great basin of acid Nellie had very nearly plummeted into…until he arrived in an area he didn't remember seeing previously.

His skin tingled with that disorienting sense of having been somewhere before: it seemed the Fleet Street bake house was displayed for him in all its hellish glory. Open crates of human bones, some garnished with bits of raw, red flesh, lined the walls in neat rows, apparently awaiting the services of the oven – currently dark and cold – built into the brick at the far end of the room. Atop one of these skeletal hoards rested a small skull, the size of a child's head…Sweeney remembered hearing Nellie say something about Holmes' mistress and her child going missing…how she used to give the little girl sweets every now and then when they'd come into the shop…

He'd have to tell Nellie that he'd found the child.

As Sweeney cast his gaze about this den of filth, he discovered a narrow staircase, nearly obscured by shadow in the far corner, near the oven – which must, taking the room's contents into consideration, be a small crematory. Another box lay beneath these stairs, along with a pile of some kind of white powder that Sweeney assumed to be more quicklime. As he approached, planning to mount the steps, he cast his lantern's beam on the pile. Its coarse, crystalline appearance confirmed his suspicions of its nature; but what caught his attention was the outline of a shape embedded in the substance…the petite contour of a woman's foot.

"I'm gonna _relish_ killin' you, Holmes!" Todd shouted at the top of his lungs. "You soddin' walkin' aberration! I'm gonna draw this out as long as I possibly can, burn _your_ flesh with your own methods, a bit at a time, slowly…"

He received no response. But Holmes, Todd had learned, was a patient man. He could wait forever for his game to play out…

Peering into the box beside the heap of caustic lime, Sweeney was surprised to find not bones, but what appeared to be bits of clothing, doubtless destined for the furnace. But in amongst these personal effects, the barber saw a dark, crudely round object that didn't resemble any familiar day-to-day article…Curiosity getting the better of him, fascinated by Holmes' dementia even as he was repulsed by it, he reached out to examine this strange object more closely; and even as his fingertips brushed its surface he knew what it was.

Women's hair, twisted and knotted into a rough ball, every color and shade imaginable weaving in and amongst and through one another; and close to the surface, a few strands of bright yellow, like threads of spun gold.

Rage ripped through him. Seething, he gripped the grisly memento, threw it into the dark oven, and sprinted up the stairs, his racing blood pounding in his ears, his vision clouded red…The door at the top was not locked and he lunged through it with a roar –

It seemed he'd stumbled into Holmes' private apartment. Surprisingly, it was simply appointed, almost Spartan in comparison with the lavish rooms of the hotel, and the room where Johanna had been imprisoned: only a bed, desk, and dresser occupied the space.

The only abnormality, Sweeney noticed, was the presence of scored lines in the floor – another trap door.

The barber knew his quarry was beyond his reach when his eyes lighted on a white square of paper lying precisely in the center of the desk.

_Dr. Vincent Marlowe,_ the envelope read; and when Sweeney turned it in his hand, he saw that it had been sealed with a wax stamp bearing the single initial _H._ He broke this, extracted the single-folded sheet of creamy, linen-like paper, and read:

_My dear Sir:_

_Please accept my sincerest congratulations on discovering my humble abode. Though I must say, it doesn't come as a surprise that your cleverness – and your thirst to shed my blood – would lead you here._

_I realize that I never properly thanked you for the lovely time I enjoyed when you and your family were guests in my home. Please do accept my heartfelt thanks for the entertainment you provided me, the like of which I do not expect to experience again for quite some time._

_I understand that your enchanting daughter has recovered fully from my ministrations –_

_Shit!_ Sweeney thought. _How the bleedin' hell does he know?..._

– _which I was most astonished to discover,_ the letter went on. _You are obviously more resourceful than I had imagined. _

_But enough pleasantries. By now I'm sure you're asking yourself where I might be hiding. Alas, I have found it necessary to remove myself from this fair city for an indefinite time. Your little escapades have put me on the alert, and I feel it wise to vanish and lie low for a while. You understand._

_In the meantime, do give my best regards to the lovely Eleanor._

_Until we meet again, my friend, I am, yours most sincerely,_

_H.H. Holmes._

Sweeney Todd stood staring at the paper in his hand for some long moments. At length, he flipped the note to its blank side and smoothed it out on the surface of the desk. Taking up the fountain pen that rested in its holder nearby, he wrote:

_Holmes:_

_Indeed I eagerly await our next meeting. I assure you that the anticipation of that event shall fully occupy my mind in the meanwhile. Should this happy encounter never occur in this life, however, I earnestly look forward to our reunion in hell, where I fervently hope to have the privilege of flaying the skin from your bones, three inches at a time, repeatedly for the duration of eternity._

He didn't sign it.

* * *

Dawn was just beginning to lighten the horizon when Sweeney opened his own front door. He passed the closed door to the parlor, where he assumed Toby was still sleeping, and was just about to head upstairs to see if Nellie was awake, so he could explain his absence. But as he turned his eyes to the upper landing, he realized he didn't want to face her just yet. He'd failed, and he didn't want her to see him in his failure. He could only hope she wasn't already up and in the kitchen as he made his way there, intending to be alone for a while with his thoughts and a good strong –

_Tea,_ he told himself. _No liquor, you great git…_

But as he came through the kitchen door, a shape by the table startled him and he thought for an instant it was his wife – he could still back out of the room, he thought, before she knew he was there –

Then the shape turned its head towards him, and he realized it was Johanna.

"Good morning, Mr. Todd," she said, politely, almost timidly.

She hadn't called him "father" yet, and that was fine. Sweeney wasn't sure he wanted her to. If she did, the distance he wished to maintain would be closed by just that much more.

He nodded stiffly by way of returning her greeting, then asked "How are you feeling?" simply for the sake of something to say.

"Very well today, thank you."

A noncommittal grunt sounded in his throat, and then another awkward silence descended. There had been more than enough of those since his daughter had been under his roof. It wasn't just regret that welled up in him when he found himself in her presence – not only the agonizing frustration of constantly being reminded that he hadn't been there for her to protect her as a father should, hadn't been able one single time to spare her from being marred by all her ordeals. It wasn't just the knowledge that this absence had ultimately been the fault of his own innocent blindness. No, it was raw fury that painfully closed his throat and prevented him from speaking or even being in the same room with his own child: pure wrath born of the knowledge that the lovely, intelligent, sweet-natured, guileless young woman his daughter had become was due to Turpin and not to himself. Todd had nothing to do with the person Johanna had grown into.

He wasn't her father at all. Not really. Not in all the ways that mattered. _Turpin was_, and always would be, even in death. And for that, Todd burned to destroy the bastard all over again.

He meant to leave the room, but Johanna's voice stopped him. "I was just about to put the kettle on again," she said, gesturing to an empty teacup on the table before her. "Would you like some tea?"

He didn't, really; but in spite of his misgivings he answered "All right."

He took a seat at the table, and there was silence between them while Johanna busied herself at the stove. After setting the kettle to boil, she returned and settled into her chair again, folding her hands before her and not looking at her father. He could tell she wanted to speak, but something was holding her back. Fear of him, most likely.

He cleared his throat softly and said, "Mrs. Todd still asleep, I suppose?"

"Yes. That is, I haven't seen her yet this morning."

That was good, he thought. She still needed her rest. Then it hit him that Johanna had been through much worse than Nellie, and his brow furrowed. "You're up very early."

"I couldn't sleep," Johanna sighed.

Sweeney searched his mind for any medical knowledge that might explain this, but finally had to give up. "I've never heard of a transfusion doin' that – "

"It's not that, Mr. Todd. At least, I don't think it is. It's the nightmares."

For the first time, he looked directly at her, and saw that her own eyes were fastened on him – but only for a moment, before she looked away again.

"Nothin' to be ashamed of," said Todd. "You'll probably always have them."

Then she slowly turned to face him, her eyes locking with his as she whispered, "Do you?"

He nodded. "You're gonna be all right, Johanna."

"I have such terrible thoughts, Mr. Todd," she protested, almost desperately now, her voice threatening tears. "Thoughts and feelings that I can't control…"

Without thinking, Sweeney reached out across the table and placed a hand over hers. "Hear me, Johanna. You _will_ be all right. I will see to that. I was never there for you before, but I'm bloody well here now, and I won't allow you to slip away. D'you understand me?"

She was looking at him incredulously, with stunned, wide eyes.

"I know what you're goin' through," he went on. "I know what it can do to you, and I won't let it happen. I won't see you turn into me."

"I don't want to be sent to an alienist – "

"No," Sweeney interrupted, a bit sterner than he'd intended. He wasn't about to tell her that an alienist's involvement would put all of them at risk, including Anthony, since the lad had recently been very closely aligned with Todd.

"Or an asylum." She couldn't prevent her voice from cracking on the last word, and her eyes closed against memories, Sweeney knew, of Fogg's.

His hand tightened around her delicate fingers. "No, not that, never that again, ever. You may think what you like of me, but you have my word on this. There will be no asylums or alienists. Nothin' but – "

He broke off, withdrew his hand, just as the kettle began to wail. Johanna ignored it and sat staring expectantly at her father, the few tears that had slipped from her eyes already drying.

"Only me," he said, just under the high whistle beginning to fill the room, and then amended his words: "All of us."

* * *

Anthony sat rigidly in the hard, austere chair provided for him. He knew its discomfort was purposeful – this was the chief inspector's office, after all; and the seat was intended for hours of grueling interrogation of suspected criminals. For Anthony, though, it was all right. Where others might squirm and fidget restlessly in such nerve-wracking circumstances, Anthony Hope typically stiffened. Just at the moment, he wasn't moving at all. Hardly breathing, in fact.

The chief inspector himself had left the former sailor alone for a long while – another interrogation tactic, Anthony supposed. Break down the suspect's resistance by leaving him alone to stew in his own juices till his nerves were raw from his own frantic attempts to formulate an alibi in his head…

But Anthony wasn't a suspect.

Was he?...

At last the door opened, and Chief Inspector Thorne walked confidently in. "Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Hope."

_I'm sure,_ Anthony thought to himself.

Thorne seated himself behind his desk and smiled. "You have the Yard's gratitude for making such a long journey, Mr. Hope. I'm sorry such an arduous trip might turn out not to be worth the trouble; this shouldn't take very long at all."

"I understand, sir."

"Now Mr. Hope," Thorne went on, folding his hands on the desk and leaning forward. "As I'm sure you're aware, your own involvement with Sweeney Todd was thoroughly investigated, considering you'd been seen frequenting his tonsorial parlor on several occasions. Also in light of the fact that it was you, as your shipmates attested, who was responsible for returning Todd to London."

"I had no idea at the time, sir – "

"Oh, of course you didn't; how could you?" Thorne said with a smile, regarding Anthony with much the same expression as a cat watches its prey before pouncing on it. "No, what troubled me _personally_ Mr. Hope, if you must know, was the fact that you were seen by several neighbors of His Honor the late Judge Turpin, lurking about the man's house."

Anthony stopped breathing.

"And now," the chief inspector continued, "you're married to the late judge's daughter, are you not?"

Hope fought to keep his voice even, to meet Thorne's relentless eyes as he replied, "Yes, sir. That's correct."

"Yes. That one thing, Mr. Hope, has given me considerable pause these past two years. But by itself, it's nothing incriminating." Thorne leaned further forward then, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "I'll tell you a little secret, Mr. Hope. I was ready and willing to clap you in irons the moment you walked through this door and then personally escort you to Newgate Prison. I don't trust your association with Todd, you see, not worth a damn. But I can't _prove_ a thing against you. And given that you were the one who turned the man in, after all…I really don't want a case of habeas corpus mucking up the works here, things can become so very complicated for the Yard when accusations of false imprisonment come along."

It was a struggle for Anthony to keep eye contact; but he succeeded, never wavering, meeting the man's gaze steadily. But he made no reply – he didn't want to fall into a trap, and he couldn't be sure whether anything the chief inspector said might be calculated to make Anthony incriminate himself.

"Well," said Thorne resignedly, after a few more moments of studying his mark, pushing himself back into his chair. "It seems, then, that there's only one more piece of information we need from you, Mr. Hope. Do you know the current whereabouts of Sweeney Todd and Eleanor Lovett?"

_That_ was unexpected. How on earth was he _supposed_ to have known? If the most serendipitous chance of fate hadn't landed the four of them in the same city, there could be no possible way for Anthony to have this intelligence. And the casual way Thorne had just tossed out this question…

"Sir?" was all he was capable of saying in his shock.

"We've traced them to America, you see; but the trail goes cold after New York. Though I have my suspicions as to their potential involvement with certain events in Fall River, Massachusetts, about a year or so ago now. And you've been living in America recently, have you not, Mr. Hope?"

"W – yes, but – "

"So I ask again: do you have any knowledge of the current whereabouts of Sweeney Todd and Eleanor Lovett?"

Recovering now, Anthony allowed a small smile to lift a corner of his mouth as he answered. "America is a rather large country, chief inspector."

Thorne's face went dark. "Answer the question," he insisted, his voice dangerously low, all pretense of camaraderie vanished. "And if you are lying, God help you."

Now Anthony was faced with a choice.

Sweeney Todd and his wife were murderers. The barber had slain countless men, and his accomplice had butchered them and committed the most unthinkable atrocity with the remains. And neither of them – not, at least, to Anthony's knowledge – ever displayed a drop of remorse about any of it.

Their victims deserved justice. There was no question in Anthony's mind that these infernal cutthroats deserved the gallows.

And yet…

He saw Todd in his mind's eye, not as the blood-soaked barber but as a physician, binding him up after his fall from that scaffold. Anthony often thought that if Todd hadn't cared for him so well, he'd be living with much worse than a limp. He remembered Todd's efforts to save Johanna – first from Turpin and Fogg's, then from Holmes. He saw once again how frantic Todd had been to get Johanna to safety that day, cradling her in his arms – behaving just like any loving father would, if his child's life were in such desperate jeopardy.

And then Lovett – Mrs. Todd, risking so much, both from Holmes' deathtraps and for the transfusion that had saved Johanna's life.

They both endangered their own lives, several times over, for Johanna's sake. Without them, he never would have known where she'd disappeared to; and Holmes would certainly have ended her life eventually. Anthony would have spent the rest of his life wondering, never knowing his wife's fate.

He owed the Todds more than he could ever repay.

But he knew a way to try.

"No," he answered, shaking his head slowly. "I haven't heard a thing about either one of them. I've no idea where they've taken themselves off to."

Thorne's jaw clenched; the vein in his temple pulsed alarmingly. For a moment Anthony feared the man might indeed make good on his threat and have him haled into Newgate after all…

"You are free to go, Mr. Hope," said Thorne, his voice a barely-audible growl. "But mark my words," he added, after Anthony had risen and had his hand on the doorknob. "We will find them. The world is not big enough to hide from the arm of Scotland Yard."

_What a pompous jackass,_ Anthony thought – and smiled. That was just the sort of thing Mrs. Todd would say…

"I'm sure, chief inspector," he said, rather enjoying the sight of the purple hue beginning to tint Thorne's face. "But as for me, I need to be going home to my wife."

In all his travels, he'd never looked forward to any other journey with such enthusiasm.

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks for reading! As always, **please review** and let me know how this is as a wrap-up.


	17. Epilogue

**Disclaimers:** See Prologue.

**A/N: If you haven't read the last chapter, "Repayment", go back and read it before reading this :)**

Told you the Epilogue would be up quick ;) I've been working on it all along, in bits and pieces; it was only awaiting the big decision on a third installment. And as I said, there isn't going to be one. But there will be something new...*gulp!* Anyway - **I cannot thank you enough, those of you who've read this from the beginning, especially if you've been with me since "When Sweeney Met Lizzie". And especially if you've reviewed and subscribed.** I love every single one of you :)

A few notes...

A stereoscope, mentioned in this epilogue, was a popular 19th-century entertainment, where you'd insert picture cards into this contraption with an eyepiece and look into it and see 3-D pictures. Think of it as the 19th-century equivalent of television.

About our friend Lizzie from WSML: IRL Miss Borden was acquitted of all charges in the double homicide of her father and stepmother, in July, 1893. She got her house on the Hill, but was shunned by Fall River society and ended her days with a handful of staunch human friends (sister Emma was not among them - the two had a serious falling-out in 1905) and loads of animal companions. Lizzie died in 1927 and left the bulk of her fortune to the Animal Rescue League of Fall River.

As for H.H. Holmes...I'm going to miss writing him, although it was a rather disturbing experience at times. I was seriously considering having Sweeney do him in; but I decided to stick with the real history. IRL Holmes got away with his crimes until 1894, when he was arrested for fraud in a horse sale transaction. During that investigation, his murders came to light. He wrote a tell-all book called "Holmes' Own Story", acted as his own defense at his trial, and was hanged in 1895.

And now, without further ado...THE END.

* * *

**Epilogue:**

**How Long?**

The tinny strains of a waltz drifted to Sweeney's ears the moment he walked in the door, the music intermingled with the sound of laughing voices.

"Sorry, Mum."

"Quite all right, dear; you're doin' splendid. One more time now…"

Coming to the doorway of the small sitting room, the barber saw that his wife and ward had pushed all the furniture to the walls during his visit to the post office, creating a passable space in which to conduct a dancing lesson. So absorbed were they in this task that they apparently had not noticed his arrival; so he folded his arms and leaned against the doorframe to amuse himself by observing them stumble about. Or rather, Toby was doing all the stumbling. The boy was fourteen now and hadn't quite grown into his own frame yet; but he was striving mightily and good-naturedly to master the coordination the dance required.

After a while, Nellie caught sight of her husband and winked at him, and he decided it was time to intervene.

He walked up behind Toby and tapped the lad on the shoulder. "May I?" he smirked; and the boy turned back to his mother, smiled, bowed, and kissed her hand before leaving the room.

"Gonna be a charmer, that one," Nellie remarked, as Sweeney swept her up and led her effortlessly into the waltz – as much as was possible in such a tiny area.

"I pity the poor young lady who fails to meet with his mum's approval," Sweeney quipped.

His wife's eyes narrowed. "You're one to talk, Mr. Todd."

He only continued smirking in response. "D'you like your birthday present, my dear?" he asked after a moment.

Her eyes closed blissfully, and she answered "Oh, love, it's more than I could ever ask for."

"I don't mean bein' here at the seaside, pet," he said, very nearly chuckling. "I mean the phonograph."

Her eyes shot open again, flashing at him. "You shouldn't've spent the money, Sweeney," she scolded him – but the hint of glee lurking in her voice answered his question.

"And _you_ shouldn't've spent the money on that stereoscope you give me for our one-year anniversary, but that didn't stop you."

"It _would've_ stopped me to know you'd end up plantin' your face in it for hours on end and ignorin' me," she protested airily.

He frowned. "I don't even know where the blasted thing is anymore. I think your son has stolen it from me."

"In that case," she said huskily, a wry smile coming to her face, "I'll have to thank him."

She was so entrancing, gazing up at him that way, teasing him, begging him – he suddenly brought their dance to a halt and pressed his lips to hers. She chuckled – he knew he'd given her exactly what she'd been silently asking for – and returned his kiss hungrily.

"Don't you want to see what arrived in the post?" he asked after a minute, nipping her upper lip before pulling away.

She shook her head. "That what a year o' marriage does, then? More interested in the bloody post now?"

"Ah, but I think you'll like this, my dear," he protested, reaching into his jacket and drawing out a small bundle of envelopes, which he sorted through until he found the one he sought. He held it out for his wife's inspection.

"Ah, it's from Lizzie!" Nellie said happily. "What does she say?..."

"Haven't opened it yet."

Sweeney slit the envelope with his little finger and withdrew the crisp paper it held. LIZBETH A. BORDEN, MAPLECROFT, FALL RIVER was embossed at the head of the first page. Nellie leaned over his shoulder as he read:

_My Dear Mr. and Mrs. Todd, _

_I hope this letter finds you well. My uncle John has assured me that it will find its way to you, though I of course have no idea where you're living now. I was so pleased when he informed me of your marriage, and was only sorry I could not offer you my congratulations before now. I know you will be very happy._

"Poor dear," Nellie muttered. Sweeney knew she was thinking of Lizzie's own secret, and abortive, engagement to David Anthony.

_It is hard for me now, since the acquittal,_ the letter went on. _People who had once been my friends and steadfast supporters now shun me, to the point of crossing the street to the opposite side when I approach. I think there is a sentiment in Fall River that I should have moved away after my trial, having brought such scandal to the city. But Emma stands by me; and I have a few friends left. And I have Maplecroft, my home on the Hill at long last, which is more than I ever dreamed. I know it might be impossible, given your circumstances; but I do hope that some day you might be able to come and stay with us here at Maplecroft. _

Nellie whimpered wistfully by his side; and Sweeney shot her a glance. "Don't even _think_ it, Nell," he said, in a low, warning tone. "You know as well as I do that we can't ever go back there."

She only sighed in response, and they both turned back to the letter.

_I would love to have you as my guests; it would be the very least I could do to repay you for all you've done for me. I shall never forget your kindness._

Sweeney exchanged a glance with his wife, and a small, knowing smile passed between them. Miss Borden was, of course, referring to Sweeney's murder of her father and stepmother more than a year before, in which, of course, Nellie had assisted.

The letter closed with a wish that the couple would give Lizzie's best regards to Master Ragg, and write when they could, forwarding the letter through John Morse. It was signed _Fondly, Lizbeth_.

"Nice of her to write," Nellie commented. "Leave it on the kitchen table for Toby to read. He was always fond of Lizzie."

Sweeney nodded and headed to the kitchen, where he tossed the open letter onto the table. He could still hear Nellie in the other room, stopping the phonograph cylinder, as she called out "I thought I'd take a walk down by the shore this afternoon before Johanna and Anthony arrive for supper."

At the mention of his daughter and son-in-law, Sweeney's heart thumped unpleasantly. He never failed to be nervous in Johanna's company, even after all the time he'd spent with her over the past few months, all the lengthy talks they'd had about the trials she'd experienced, especially what Holmes had inflicted on her.

The thought of that maniac still made Todd's blood run hot. The authorities had paid no mind to Anthony's anonymous letter suggesting that Holmes warranted investigation; and while the great exhibition was in progress the newspapers had been full of mysterious references to the disappearances and murders plaguing the city – four killings a day. Todd had no doubt that at least half of those were Holmes' work. But he couldn't return to Chicago to seek the bastard out. It would require being gone for a great length of time; and the barber had developed a nagging, irrational compulsion against leaving his family alone.

His thoughts were interrupted by the feeling of his wife's arms coming around him from behind, her head resting between his shoulder blades. "Mr. Todd," she said – she still called him that, always when he was lost in reverie and she was trying to get through to him. And for some reason, it always worked.

"What?"

"I was askin' if you'd like to come with me."

"Oh. 'Course."

"She's doin' so much better, Sweeney," Nellie said softly, as though she'd read his mind, her voice cautious, as it always was when she brought up the issue of Johanna's mental state. "You've done wonders with her, you really have."

He nodded absently. "She's had you to talk with too, pet. Don't forget that."

He heard the smile in her voice as she said, "It's been wonderful gettin' to know her. D'you think she's accepted me?"

Sweeney couldn't suppress his own smile at that. "Bloody hell, pet, every time I talk to her it's 'Mrs. Todd says this, Mrs. Todd says that'…you've gotten a lot soddin' closer to her than I have."

His back was still to her, but he knew she was grinning widely. "And Anthony's doin' well at his job," she went on, "nice and safe at the customs office. Not that they need it, now the inheritance came through and they sold Turpin's house."

Sweeney cocked an eyebrow. "Anthony's not the type to sit about, Nell. Money ain't the reason he needs that job."

"S'pose you're right. Still, the extra money'll come in handy, what with the baby on the way and all."

Sweeney groaned. He was trying to ignore the knowledge that he was going to be a grandfather. He insisted that he was still far too young for the title. But his wife – who was well aware of his feelings on this issue – just chuckled and snaked her way around to face him, saying "Don't worry, dear. You're the handsomest granddad I've ever seen," stretching up to peck his cheek and obviously striving to contain her mirth at his discomfort. It was all right for _her_, he thought – she was positively thrilled about the fact that Johanna was expecting.

"Do shut it, my dear," he growled, at which Nellie threw back her head and laughed. "Come on, then," she said, taking his hand and pulling him towards the door. "Salt air'll do you a world o' good…"

*************

He didn't say that he loved her, but he didn't have to: she knew it, felt it from him in every touch of his lips on her skin, every caress of his hand; in the way he held her as though he couldn't bring her close enough, clutched her back as if he feared she might somehow slip away from him…she heard it in his voice when he breathed her name and shuddered in her arms at the height of his ecstasy, and hers, when they collapsed into each other body and heart and mind and soul.

Dawn's first blush was easing its way through the shutter slats, but neither was in a rush to start the day. Nellie's head was pillowed on her husband's arm as he rested on his elbow, leaning over her, and she was drinking in the delight of the kisses he lavished on her while his free hand lovingly traveled the contours of her small form, her own hands slowly, lightly tracing the outlines of the muscles of his back and arms. "I could stay here forever," she whispered, smiling.

Sweeney paused to ask, "Are you that happy, then?"

"Oh yes, my love," she answered – then spoke a question she wasn't sure she wanted the answer to: "Are you?"

He sighed. "I'm satisfied. Almost content, even. Is that good enough?"

"Where you're concerned, dear," she said with a grin, "it's more than enough."

She wound a hand in his hair to bring him close for another kiss, deep and lingering; then nestled into him, still wrapped in his arms as they settled back against the pillows. A delicious sleepiness was stealing over her, and for the first time in a very long while she felt truly and fully at peace.

"What've we done, Sweeney?"

He started a bit – she could tell she'd shaken him out of a doze – and slurred "Hm? What d'you mean?"

"To deserve this," she explained, her voice quiet. "It's so good and so right…it's everything I ever wanted. Why do we deserve it?"

He sighed. "Don't question it, Nell. Just…" He broke off, kissed her hair, and said "Just go to sleep."

But she didn't. She couldn't – how could she possibly, with the love of her life in her arms and the sea practically just outside the window? She wanted to stay awake, to enjoy all this completely, to savor every moment of it, before it all dissolved like a dream and she was forced to give it up when its time ran out.

She didn't want anything to shatter this spell; but she felt she had to know how much longer she'd be allowed to hold on to this beautiful illusion that their lives were finally something close to normal. "So how long we got this place for?" she asked, her fingers drawing absent patterns on her husband's chest.

Sweeney looked at her, confusion wrinkling his brow. "What d'you mean?"

"I mean the rent on this place. How long did you lease it for?"

His small smile shone in the pale morning light. "Nellie…this is our house."

"All right," she said, a bit saddened that he didn't understand and she had to put herself through the agony of spelling this out for him. "But how long do we have it for? Another week? Two?" _Please let it be three…_

Sweeney's fingertips grazed her cheek. "Forever, if you like," he answered.

Her heart sank. "Don't, Sweeney…don't joke, not about this – "

He sighed, clearly frustrated, and propped himself up on his elbow again to look at her more directly. "For God's sake, pet – this is _our house_. I thought you knew that as soon as I showed it to you, silly woman. You mean we been here all this time and you never knew it was ours?"

She sat bolt upright in the bed, a hand clutched to her thundering heart. "Sweeney…I thought…we were only here visitin' Johanna and Anthony for a while, helpin' 'em get settled in…"

He sat up too, a concerned expression marking his darkly handsome features. "It's not completely paid for yet, o' course; but if I can get my practice goin' we'll scrape along all right…" He ran a hand through his hair, and his voice took on a distracted quality as though he were talking more to himself than to his wife. "It's so bleedin' small, and it needs a load of work; but I thought we might be able to make somethin' of it – "

She flung herself on him then, and he caught her and wrapped her up in his embrace. "No more, Sweeney," she gasped, clinging to his shoulders, his solidity assuring her that all this was real and not another insubstantial fantasy. "No more killin', no more runnin' away, promise me…"

His arms tightened around her. "I promise."

"I couldn't bear to lose all this, we can't risk it anymore…"

"I promise," he repeated. "But…I'll still be the same man, you know…even if I never – "

"I don't want you to be anything else, ever," she said desperately, beginning to shower his neck with fevered kisses, murmurs of "I love you, Sweeney Todd…I love _you_" peppered among them.

His voice hummed against her neck as he said "D'you like the house, my love?" – his lips on her shoulder now – "are you happy?"

But she couldn't find the breath to answer him, because just then, all at once, she caught the familiar sounds of her son stirring about the house – felt her beloved hold her even closer as he called her "my love" again – heard, through the just-ajar window, the everlasting sigh of the sea.

**FIN**


End file.
